


I can't see you

by Jay_the_bird



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Parenting, Beholding Avatar Powers (The Magnus Archives), Body Horror, Canon Divergence - Episode: e160 The Eye Opens (The Magnus Archives), Eye Gouging, Eye Trauma, Fix-It, Hilltop Road, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, No beta we kayak like Tim, Suicidal Thoughts, Time Travel, Trauma, Trypophobia, Vomiting, season 1 archives gang
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 34,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26542609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_the_bird/pseuds/Jay_the_bird
Summary: Statement of Hazel Rutter, regarding a fire in her childhood home.Statement Begins.And then Jonathan Sims wakes up, alone and afraid, stumbling out onto the pavement of Hilltop Road.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 174
Kudos: 277





	1. The Eye Blinks

“Martin!” Jon cries, stumbling out into the light. He trips on the last step and goes sprawling into the dirt, coughing at the ash and dust. “ _Martin!_ ” There is no reply, and he feels his cheeks grow wet with panicked tears as he struggles to his feet. “Martin, where are you?” The bright sunlight hurts his eyes, his head spinning as he stumbles down the road. Jon doesn’t know how far he walks, calling out for Martin. Eventually, he stops, crumpling in the middle of the dirt road he finds himself on, and tries to collect his thoughts. They whirl around his head like a hurricane, unstoppable. All he knows is that he doesn’t know where Martin is, that he doesn’t really know where _he_ is, that he _needs_ to Know.

Trying to steady his breathing, Jon focuses on the sharp pain of stones beneath his hands and knees. It brings him back to himself enough that he can define where the Eye begins in his mind. He recoils from it automatically, wanting to get away from something he can’t remember.

“Martin.” Jon whispers desperately, shaking with fear. “Please. Please, I _need_ – I need to Know how to find him.” The Eye watches. It always watches, and for a moment, Jon allows himself the satisfaction of hating it. Then he makes a desperate snatching attempt to take the Knowledge. It is a fight he cannot win, weakened and confused and lost, but Jon fights it for as long as he can, blood trickling from his nose and ears and mouth as he tries to Know where Martin is. There is a flash of light, and for one brilliant second, Jon thinks he has somehow succeeded. Then the car slams into him, and all he knows is pain and fear and a terrible, aching loss.

“Martin.”

“No Martin here, sweetie.” The pain becomes unimportant as Jon opens his eyes and tries to sit up. Even the flaring of florescent hospital lights is secondary to the terrible knowledge that Martin is not there. Jon blinks blearily at the nurse currently rearranging a file.

“I need to find Martin.” He croaks, pulling back the sheets as he tries to stand up.

“You need to _rest_.” The nurse – _Mary_ , he Knows – moves to block his escape, giving him a strange look. “You were hit by a car.”

“I’ll be _fine_.” Jon replies stubbornly. “I _need_ Martin. I need to make sure he’s ok.” He stands up, legs shaky beneath him, and takes three steps away from the bed. Trying to ignore the hunger, Jon focuses on Martin, on all he knows about him, and tries to Know where he is again. The Eye refuses, and his nose begins to bleed again, something tearing and failing in his chest as he struggles with it. His vision goes black for a few seconds, and when he comes back to himself, he is once more in the hospital bed. The nurse looks concerned, straightening up next to him. “I’m _fine_.” He insists.

“Hm.” Regarding him with suspicion, she appears to come to a decision. “Who _is_ Martin?”

“He’s – he’s _wonderful_.” Tenderness creeps into his voice irresistibly, and despite his exhaustion and confusion and pain, Jon smiles. “We’re dating.” He says proudly, allowing himself the comfort of remembering the weeks of peace in the safehouse.

“Alright, do you have any contact details for him?” Smile faltering, Jon looks down at his hands. There is something wrong with them, though he can’t figure out what.

“No.” He says quietly. “I don’t Know how to find him, that’s the _whole problem_.” The urge to Look again is growing, but it doesn’t come from the Eye. Jon can’t tell if that bodes well for his humanity. “We got separated.”

“How did that happen?”

“I don’t Know.” Frustrated, Jon snaps at her. His fingernails leave half-moon indentations on his palms as he clenches and unclenches his fists, trying to find the right way to explain. “I can’t remember. I _can’t_ – we were in Daisy’s safehouse. And then I was on the pavement of Hilltop Road.” As he speaks, theories start to fly in his mind. His first thought is to blame Annabelle Cane and the web – but then he thinks of Jonah, and the fear is almost overwhelming.

“Memory loss isn’t exactly unexpected. You _were_ hit by a car.”

“Yes, and I remember that _very_ clearly.” Every instant of the impact is sharp and clear in his mind. He can remember his bones breaking, splintering, blood filling his lungs, the impact of solid metal slamming into him at speed. He can remember the Eye knitting him back together, weaving bones and sinew and skin back into place. “I remember going to read a statement. He went out – he went to buy tea. And then – nothing.” Panic rises like bile in his throat. “It won’t _let_ me remember. Something happened, something _bad_ , and I _can’t remember it_.” His hands – which are still wrong, very wrong – shake with fear. “It’s punishing me. I did something wrong, and the Eye’s taken Martin away and won’t let me Know if he’s safe.” The answer is in that statement – it has to be. He Knows that he has to find it and read it. And he is deathly afraid of it.

“The eye?” Glancing at his file, the nurse frowns. Jon ignores her, scratching at his forearm absent-mindedly.

“There’s something I’m missing.” He says eventually, staring blankly at the wall opposite. “Something I should be able see.”

“What’s the eye?” Again, she looks at that file, and Jon Knows what is in it. What the paramedics found when they loaded him into the ambulance. A thrill of fear runs up his spine.

“It’s how I Know about the fourth of October. About the patient who wasn’t right.” The knowledge forces its way out of him as her face goes ashen. “Sorry. It’s already tried to kill me once today.” Perhaps, he thinks bitterly, he should have let it. “Like I said, it won’t let me Know if Martin’s safe.”

“So you’re saying that’s what caused your injuries? Not the car?” With a bitter laugh, Jon shakes his head.

“I’m not human enough for that.”

“And you _tried to do it again_?” His answering smile is a twisted, ironic thing, full of pain and lacking any humour whatsoever. “Did it – is it why you’ve got all the eyes inside?” For a long moment, Jon doesn’t reply, looking down at his hands. Then he sighs, sounding more tired than she has heard him so far.

“I really hoped you weren’t going to mention those.” He whispers. “I wanted to pretend – ” Stopping suddenly, he turns his hands over, staring at his palms in confusion and then running his fingers over the unblemished skin of his forearms, somewhere between awed fascination and dread. “I – where are they?” Jon looks up, the full force of his gaze overwhelmingly intense. “I had scars. All – all over. Where are they?”

“There weren’t any.” She replies immediately, and he flinches.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have – shit. _Shit_.” Looking down at his hands again, Jon looks to be on the verge of a breakdown. After a few moments of silence, he looks back up. “I need to go.” He is halfway out of the hospital bed when she processes this and moves to stop him.

“No, you can’t just _go._ You were hit by a car.” Making a small sound of frustration, Jon stands up, looking up at her with exhaustion clear in every movement.

“Yes, and, as we’ve established, I’m fine.” He sidesteps her, picking up the bag with his clothes in from the corner chair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have something important I need to do.”

“I’m sure it’s not the end of the world if you get someone to pick you up.” Something about the sentence feels wrong, and Jon frowns, scratching at his forearm where the scars should be. There is a great gaping hole in his memory, and he is more afraid of what is missing than he is of not knowing it.

“Hm.” Jon sighs. “Alright. I’ll – if I call someone to pick me up, can I leave?” Dropping the bag heavily, Jon tries to think of someone he could trust to come to the hospital. Someone alive, someone not serving an evil entity. Someone who would pick up. Or, he thinks, he could just pretend to call someone, and walk out alone. Keeping people distant has always been safer for them, he thinks, and ignores the needling memory of Martin doing just that as he chose the Lonely.

“No, you give me their contact details, and _I’ll_ call them.” The nurse says, hands on her hips as she looks disapprovingly at him. Jon shrugs as if this doesn’t concern him at all.

“ _Fine_.” He picks up the file with the pen next to it, scribbling a phone number on the front before handing it to the nurse. “Here. Georgie Barker. And I’m Jonathan Sims.” As she looks down at the file, Jon goes and sits back down on the bed. He feels exhaustion in his bones, weighing him down, and he wants more than anything to lie down and sleep – a true, dreamless sleep, next to Martin in the safehouse. Unfortunately, with the Eye watching him so closely and the unease and confusion he feels, Jon cannot trust sleep to bring the rest he so needs. Not when he might dream the fears of so many innocent people, dragging up their traumas anew. Jon decided long ago, when he first realised what his dreams were, what he was doing by seeking sleep, that he wouldn’t sacrifice their peace of mind for his own health and rest.

Of course, what he really needs is to take a statement. Even as the Eye whispers encouragement at the thought, Jon’s mind recoils from it, afraid that whatever went wrong last time will repeat itself – that he will lose even more. As the nurse leaves to call Georgie, Jon draws his knees up to his chest, pressing the heels of his palms against his closed eyes until stars burst behind his eyelids. No scars, he thinks numbly. Whatever that means, Jon suspects it isn’t a good sign for his grasp on his dwindling humanity. He exhales shakily, trying unsuccessfully to calm himself, to slow down his thoughts and separate the urgings of the Eye from what he wants and needs and fears.

And he sits alone on a hospital bed, Jon thinks of Martin and tries not to cry.


	2. Plans Thwarted

“I’m back, Jon! Sorry, I know you like to be alone for statements, but there was a _massive_ storm outside, and I thought – well, better safe than sorry.” Pulling his jumper over his head, Martin throws it towards the kitchen, where it lands with a wet splat. He grimaces, shivering as the chill rainwater seeps through his shirt. A cold fear begins to creep up his spine as he realises that the safehouse is far too quiet, save for a quiet murmuring that flows in and out like a tide and an ominous humming static. “ _Jon?_ ” He can hear someone talking, sinister and scared and not Jon. It sounds like Elias – like Jonah – and that fill Martin with fear as his imagination runs wild at what he could be doing to Jon. Following the sound leads him to the living room, where Jon is still reading the statement at their small table. His hands are shaking, and he does not move or stop talking as Martin enters the room, walking slowly towards him as his unease grows.

“– Now. Repeat after me. You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen –”

“Jon!” Martin only hesitates for a second before tearing the statement from his hands, ripping it in half and throwing it as far away as possible. Staring straight ahead, Jon does not move, mouth half open, eyes staring in horror as tears run down his cheeks, getting caught in his stubble and disrupted by the worm scars that litter his face. He can’t tell if the staticky, jarring, garbled sound of magnetic tape being chewed up is coming from the tape recorder still running on the table or from Jon himself. Either way, when Martin gathers up the courage to try and slap Jon out of it, the sound jumps and hitches for a moment before continuing undisturbed. He tries again, aware that he’s shouting something but unable to hear himself think, let alone process much of what he’s doing. Again, there is no change, and so he slumps to his knees, gently turning Jon to face him. “Please, Jon. Wake up.” There is no response. Nothing suggests that Jon even recognises him, from his unfocussed, terrified eyes to his unmoving expression. “ _Please_.” Martin sniffs and wipes roughly at his eyes, scanning Jon’s face desperately for some kind of sign that he’s trying to communicate. Still crying silently, Jon’s eyes appear to focus for a moment, and Martin almost feels hopeful. Then he abruptly realises that Jon has seen the torn statement over his shoulder, and he has to physically hold him back from it. The idea of Jon getting to it, of what he might do if he finishes reading it, terrifies Martin. “Jon, stop. Stop. Wake up.” He pushes him backwards all at once and lunges for the statement. It crumples in his hand, and he reaches for the web lighter on Jon’s table to burn it. The flame is inches from the paper when he looks back at Jon and stops. He is somewhere between fear and agony, still crying silently. “Jon?” Hesitating, Martin flicks the lighter off again. “Jon, are you – will this _kill_ you?” The static buzz grows louder for a second, and almost sounds like words, though Martin can’t make any of them out. “Right. Bad idea.” He shoves the crumpled pieces into a drawer where Jon can’t see them and tries to ignore the way his eyes unfocus once they’re out of sight. It is surprisingly easy to guide Jon into their bedroom, to make him sit down on the bed and stay there while Martin decides who to call and what to do.

Basira doesn’t pick up, and Martin doesn’t leave her a voicemail. She’ll see the missed call and know something has gone wrong – and besides, Martin doesn’t know what to say. They had never been close anyway, and he suspects that her advice would just be to kill Jon, which he will not do. After sacrificing so much of his humanity to keep Jon safe, Martin will not accept any suggestion that he might have to die to make things right. Not from Basira, not from Melanie, not from his own mind, and certainly not from Jon himself.

“What do I do?” He asks Jon, sitting down next to him. “How do I save you?” Though he doesn’t expect a response, Jon’s blank stillness still breaks his heart. “ _Please_ , Jon. _Wake up_.” Martin puts his head in his hands, trying to stop himself from breaking down. “I don’t know what to do, Jon.” He whispers, voice choked with emotion. Hesitating for a moment, Martin hugs Jon, closing his eyes as he tries to pretend that there is any way this will end well for the two of them. It is not the first time that Martin has done this since arriving at their safehouse. Even on the first night there they had found this small comfort, holding each other as the wind howled like the wrath of god around the doors and windows, shaking the roof tiles and whistling through the cracks in the walls. Then, it had calmed the fear, helped Martin to forget all that was working against them. Now, he just felt keenly the lack of response from Jon, the unnatural stillness of him and the uncanny regularity of his breathing. Sitting back, Martin settles for taking one of Jon’s hands and folding both of his own around it, the uneven burn scar against his palms reminding him that it is still Jon sat next to him.

The storm is still raging hours later when he remembers their list. It’s pinned up in the kitchen, where they’d written it while making breakfast on their first day in the safehouse. Contingency plans, options, ways out for when none seemed possible. He stands and takes Jon by the hand, helping him to his feet and leading him to the kitchen with care. Almost on autopilot, he fills and boils the kettle, leaving their two mugs of tea to brew while he takes the list down and smooths it out with shaking hands. It’s organised neatly, with subheadings and bullet points in even lines down the paper. Jon’s handwriting is near illegible, but it’s been that way as long as Martin has known him, and he can make it out well enough to understand most of what’s been written. His finger trails down to the last subheading - Too Late. Martin almost laughs at that, bitter and harsh as he wonders for how long it has been too late. When they pulled Jon, dead, from the wreckage of the wax museum, and Martin decided he would do anything to not see that, or earlier, waving them off as he prepared to use himself as bait to trap Elias. Perhaps it had been too late before Martin had ever met him, when Jon had found that Lietner. Perhaps when Jonah Magnus first decided to serve the Beholding at whatever cost.

There are two options written there, at the bottom of the crumpled post-it note, and Martin ignores the first in favour of a statement number scrawled haphazardly across a tea stain.

“0092204. Ring any bells, Jon?” The static hums on, uninterrupted, but Martin forces himself to smile as though nothing is wrong, kissing the back of Jon’s hand . “I’ll look it up. It’s probably on one of those tapes. One right at the bottom with a spider scuttling over it.” He chuckles, glancing back at Jon as he stops in the doorway. “I know, I know. Don’t trust the spiders. But they’re not as bad as you make out. And I’m not killing you. I’m sorry, Jon, but I won’t be alone again.” After a moment’s thought, he walks back over, taking Jon’s hand, and leads him back through to the living room. Leaving him alone feels like a bad idea, considering what happened last time Martin left.

“ – I went to clean that house on April the 23rd, 2009 which, according to all of you, is tomorrow. But it can’t be. That was two weeks ago.” Martin turns the recorder off and stares at it for a moment. The static continues from beside him, quiet and uneven, sounding disconcertingly like choking. As it turned out, the statement had been one of the recordings, and it had been covered in cobwebs, but Martin had made the decision to ignore the implications of that. Now, having listened to the statement, he is glad he did so.

“Fuck.” He says calmly, looking up from the tape recorder to the heart-breaking sight of Jon’s still-crying face. “Well, Jon, I guess we’re going to Hilltop Road.” Standing up and walking around, he gently wipes Jon’s cheeks dry and pulls him tenderly to his feet. “It’ll have to be by train. I’ll bring along some statements for the journey, in case – in case you wake up and need a snack.” This time he doesn’t wait for a response, wanting to avoid the heartbreak when none comes. Martin picks up the tape recorder and a random selection of paper statements, pushing them all haphazardly into his day bag, still sat by the door with his wallet and shopping bags inside. He shrugs on his coat, zipping it up quickly with one hand as he takes Jon’s coat, hat, and scarf off the hook with his other. Making sure Jon is wrapped up warm, Martin leads him out the front door and closes it gently behind them. The storm is still raging, lightning flashes arcing between the clouds and thunder rolling as it builds and builds to a climax that Martin desperately hopes will never come.

The train is nearly abandoned. Apart from the ticket inspector giving Jon a strange look as Martin hands over their tickets, nobody so much as notices them. After one stop, Martin takes out one of the more boring looking statements and reads it to Jon quietly. It makes no visible difference to Jon, and Martin feels worse afterwards, but he is also tired enough that the choked up static fades into the background and he manages to get some sleep. Of course, he starts awake every time true sleep claims him, afraid of what could happen to Jon without someone taking care of him.

Martin knows they are being watched all the way, through the night and into the dawn, in the taxi from the station and when they stand on the pavement by the scorched earth of 105 Hilltop Road. As the taxi pulls away, leaving them alone in the still raging storm, Martin pulls Jon close to him, wrapping his arm around his shoulder to offer some protection from the elements as he tries to work up the courage to take the next step on their journey, their desperate race south to save the world. Although, Martin thinks selfishly, he would settle for just saving Jon. Feeling petty, he flips off the sky, thinking of Elias – of Jonah in the Panopticon, who he is certain has somehow orchestrated this situation, has put Jon in harm’s way yet again for another nefarious scheme.

“Watch this.” He mutters, half to himself, and half to whoever or whatever is beholding them. Then, carefully taking Jon by the hand, he leads him across the threshold of the property. For a moment, he dares to hope that that simple action has solved everything. The static stops for a full second and Jon stumbles sideways against him, half collapsing before it restarts, louder and more aggressive. Whatever tape was being chewed up before now sounds like it is being completely destroyed. Panicking, afraid that he has somehow made a terrible mistake, trying not to consider the idea that this could be killing Jon, Martin tugs them both forwards, further across the desolated ground and towards the steps that lead down to the basement. With every passing second, Jon is harder to steer, like a broken puppet whose joints are sticking. By the time they reach the steps, Martin is truly pulling him along, frantic in his desperation to get through the tear below before Jon is killed by whatever entities are warring over his presence.

The basement itself is almost worryingly easy to get into, and, once they begin descending, Jon is once more easy to manoeuvre. Nevertheless, Martin hurries down as fast as is safe. The steps down are clear of debris, and enough light filters down that Martin can see the bare brick walls down below, laced with gossamer thin webs and scorched around the edges. And then he sees it and all thoughts of the webs around them fall from his mind.

The tear hurts to look at. It is wrong in a way that Martin can’t even begin to think about, and he has to force himself to keep looking at it. The idea of going through makes him almost physically recoil, his grip on Jon’s hand tightening slightly in fear.

“God, Jon, I hope you’re right about this.” He says quietly, voice wavering as he takes half a step forward. His thoughts are full of other options, ways to avoid walking through the thing in front of them, and Martin can’t tell which of those are his own. “Because I _really_ don’t want to go through there.” Closing his eyes helps, with the only reminder of where he is being the broken tape recorder sounds coming from Jon. “Don’t die, Jon.” He whispers, and Martin squares his shoulders, takes Jon firmly by the hand once more, and leads them both into the tear without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks! 
> 
> if you've made it this far, thank you! I hope you're enjoying it so far, and please let me know what you're thinking in the comments. 
> 
> \- Jay


	3. Blind Spot

“Thank you for getting me out.” Jon says, rooting in his coat pockets to see what he has with him. No phone, no wallet, no cash – all he can find is a broken pen, two paperclips, and a quietly running tape recorder. “I should – hm. I can walk back to my flat from here.” She laughs at him for that, shaking her head.

“No. I’ll get us a cab. You can come back to mine and explain why you ended up in hospital. _And_ why I’m suddenly your emergency contact.” Not bothering to wait for his response, Georgie begins to march him to the taxi rank, continuing to ramble on. “They said something about a _Martin_ , too, so don’t think you’re getting away with hiding him from me.”

“I’m – what? No, Georgie, I’m fine. We can meet up at some point, but I have to go now.” Jon steps away from her, twisting his arm free. He feels at odds with his body, lost without the scars that littered his skin and afraid of what now covers his insides as he stumbles back from her, just about keeping his balance. It’s been so long since he walked without a cane of some kind, and he already feels disoriented.

“Go where?”

“To – to work.” Not technically a lie, he thinks. He has a job to do, it’s just not the one Elias hired him for. Quite possibly the opposite, in fact. Unfortunately, Georgie looks unconvinced.

“Yeah – no. You’ve been _hit by a car_. You deserve a day off.” Beckoning him once more towards the taxis, Georgie manages to sound sympathetic and annoyed at the same time. Despite himself, Jon wants to go with her, to explain everything that has gone wrong since they last spoke, but something is needling at him – something very wrong that Georgie said, and he cannot bring himself to trust her with this.

“I can’t. It’s complicated. Look, Georgie, I have to go _now._ ” Looking ready to flee, Jon takes another step backwards, almost falling into someone behind him. She sighs and takes him by the arm again, manoeuvring him away from the people bustling around the hospital entrance.

“Either you come with me, or I’m marching you right back in there.” For a moment, Jon prepares himself to argue again – perhaps to mention Melanie, who he is certain won’t want to see him – but the resolve on Georgie’s face convinces him otherwise and he droops slightly. Suddenly exhausted, Jon shrugs, twisting his arm free once more.

“ _Fine_.” He mutters. “But I really do have to go after this.”

In the end he falls asleep in the taxi, and then again when Georgie goes to get some tea. She doesn’t wake him up the second time, dropping a blanket over his sprawled form on the sofa and leaving him to get some rest. Jon wakes up with a guilty start sometime after midnight. It is pitch black in Georgie’s living room, and Jon is afraid. He knows too well what lurks in the darkness, what monsters call it home. He knows too well what they would like to do to him. Lying there, afraid and disoriented, Jon closes his eyes tight. The darkness behind his eyelids is at least familiar – almost comforting compared to the unknown horrors of the darkness around him. For a moment, he fumbles in his coat pockets in the vague and desperate hope that he will find an overlooked torch. Instead, his fingers brush against the tape recorder, automatically flinching back before he takes it out, handling it like it might shatter at any moment. Despite the darkness, he can see it, gently whirring away as it waits for him to feed it.

“No.” He says quietly. Surprisingly, Jon does not sound as scared of the recorder as he feels. The idea of doing another statement terrifies him. Starting Hazel Rutter’s statement is the last thing he remembers, and he is unwilling to try again when there still might be a chance of him finding Martin again. It’s cruel, he thinks, that they have had so little time together. “No more statements. Not until you tell me that Martin’s safe – safe and happy and just – doing alright.” Perhaps in response, something jolts painfully in the region of Jon’s gut. He has an unpleasant mental image of something fleshy and covered in eyes that are all opening in unison. “No.” He repeats firmly, not that it does much good. The pain only increases, to the point where Jon curls in on himself, almost whimpering as he longs for Martin to come and make everything alright again. “Please, no.” Perhaps it is embarrassing that he turns so quickly to pleading with the entities, but Jon doesn’t care. “I just – I just need to Know that he’s safe. That he’s happy.” The Eye does not respond. It never responds. “Georgie doesn’t know who Martin is anymore, and –” The awful reality of that statement sinks in all at once. “She doesn’t know who Martin _is_.” Staring at the little red light of the tape recorder, the one point of illumination in the darkness, Jon is afraid all over again. “Where _am_ I?” He whispers. “How could she just _forget_ about him? He’s – she – she _couldn’t_ have _forgotten about Martin_.” Jon takes several shaky breaths, closing his eyes again as he tries to calm himself. “ _Where am I?_ ” The old paranoia comes creeping back in, whispering that he cannot trust Georgie – that he cannot trust anyone, not anymore, not in a world where she doesn’t know who Martin is. “I still remember him. You can’t – I won’t forget him. As long as I live, I will _remember_ him. And _I will find him_.” Of course, there is no response. Jon doesn’t know if he wants one, or if just threatening the Eye itself is enough to make him feel better. He doesn’t think he feels better. Mostly, he feels tired. Hungry, though he’s already made up his mind to avoid any statements, with a bone-deep weariness that keeps him from getting up and leaving immediately.

The nightmares are still fading slowly from his mind, and Jon is reluctant to confront them again. He knows that they don’t just haunt him, that by sleeping he is dragging up old trauma for others. That alone would be enough to keep him awake. As it is, he resigns himself to another sleepless night, half falling off the sofa and feeling his way to the window. The curtains draw back quietly, letting in the orange glow of the streetlamps below, reflecting off the rain-slick surfaces of the city. Jon stands there, watching cars rumble by as he tries to clear his mind of fear and paranoia.

“I miss you, Martin.” He whispers. “I know – I _know_ it hasn’t been that long – well, probably not that long. But even so. I miss you.” For a moment, a passing van sounds awfully like waves on the shore, and Jon’s hands tighten on the windowsill as he remembers the Lonely. “Please come back.” He feels cold with fear at the idea that Martin might be lost to the Lonely again. Even more frightening is the unspoken terror that whispers that Martin might have chosen it over him. That an unending domain of fear might have been preferable to him having to spend any more time around Jon. “No.” He says firmly. “No, he wouldn’t. He _wouldn’t._ ” The silence creeps back in, and Jon hunches his shoulders forward. When he speaks again, his voice is small and full of doubt. “Would he?” He hates that doubt, that he can’t believe that he could ever be good enough for Martin. “No. No, I can trust Martin. I can trust him. I _will_ trust him.” Again, that awful silence, broken only by the muffled sounds of the traffic below and the quiet whirring of the tape recorder. Jon takes several deep, shaky breaths, leaning forward to rest his head on the cool glass of the window. “Would I?” He says in a quiet, broken tone. “Would I leave? _Did_ I leave?” Laughing bitterly, Jon knows the answer is yes. By dying, he left in the worst way. “I did that to him.” Jon murmurs, almost crying with shame and fear and loneliness. “I left him alone.” And, he thinks guiltily, it’s not as if he was at all good to Martin before that. His cheeks are wet with warm tears. “I left – I left him _alone_ and _I did that to him_. And now – now –” Breaking down into choked sobs, Jon clings to the windowsill to keep himself upright.

It is several hours later when he manages to stop crying, now sitting against the wall with his knees pulled up to his chest. Jon wipes his eyes roughly, hands shaking as he tries to pull himself together.

“You won’t let me Know if he’s safe. Fine.” He says defiantly, trying for anger but landing closer to resignation. “I’ll figure it out myself.” This appears to pique the interest of the Eye. He can feel it watching him again, stronger than before. “I was reading a statement. Hazel Rutter, a fire in her childhood home. Probably – probably a Desolation statement then. And then Martin was _gone_ and I did something wrong and –” Taking a gasping breath, Jon forces himself to slow down, to be calm and rational. “No. Then I was outside Hilltop Road. Which is also Desolation – Desolation and Web. So, the statement – it must have been the statement.” And the Desolation, he thinks with growing dread, takes and takes and takes until there is nothing left. “Why can’t I Know where he is?” That, more than anything, doesn’t make sense to him. “I should – he’s not dead. I Know he’s not dead.” Jon clings to that knowledge as his last hope in a world that is increasingly unfamiliar and frightening. Taking several deep breaths, he pushes himself to his feet and stares at the tape recorder. He focuses on the feeling of being watched, seen, known, on his own personal bit of the beholding, and tries to gather as much strength as he has. “Tell me where he is.” Jon says firmly, as static fills the room, blurring the edge of his vision, drowning out his thoughts. “ _Tell me._ ” Distantly, Jon is aware that he has fallen to his knees, that he can taste ink as he coughs uncontrollably, retching. These sensations are far off, however, secondary to the horror he feels as he realises why he can’t Know about Martin. The Eye can’t see him. In this place, in this world, there is no Martin to be found. His cheeks grow wet again, though whether with tears or something else, he can’t tell. All is pain and loss and horrifying, unstoppable Knowledge. For far too long he kneels there, the Eye tearing him apart in retribution for the knowledge stolen, for his refusal to feed it in return, for the impossibility of his demands for Martin. The eyes that line his insides rip open the places where old scars should be, staring through the bloodied marks that litter his body, and Jon can’t find it in himself to care, consumed by despair and grief.

Georgie finds him lying in half dried blood and ink, hours later when the sun has risen and chased away the darkness. Her panicked questions are as distant as the awful screaming pain. All Jon knows is the emptiness inside him – and then, slowly, like a tap being turned on, anger. Fury at Jonah Magnus, for whatever his part in this has been, at the Eye, at himself. Ignoring Georgie’s protests, he stands up, willing his legs to remain firm beneath him.

“I have to go out.” He hears himself say, as if from afar, as he buttons up his coat with fingers stained black by ink.

“Are you coming back, or disappearing again?” As his mouth twists into a bitter smile, Jon strides across the room to the door.

“That isn’t really up to me.” Jon replies, turning back to face her. “I’m sorry, Georgie.” And with that, he leaves with single minded purpose, down towards the Thames. Towards the Magnus Institute. Towards the Panopticon. Towards Jonah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello once more, folks
> 
> Wow I'm on a roll right now, huh? don't worry, there will be more Georgie, but first Things Need To Happen.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, pls let me know either way down below! 
> 
> Thank you
> 
> -Jay


	4. Seeing Ghosts

Something goes wrong. When Martin opens his eyes again, he is standing in the basement of Hilltop Road, alone. The rift still sits in front of him, painful to look at, and Martin starts to move before he really realises that he’s doing so, stumbling up the steps and out into the too-bright sunshine.

“Jon!” He shouts, shielding his eyes as he looks around for him. “ _Jon!_ ” There is no response to his shouting, and fear starts to settle in the pit of Martin’s stomach, cold and insidious. He forces himself to ignore it, to turn and walk back into the basement, to double check that Jon isn’t there before he re-emerges into the daylight. “Right.” He says, trying to keep his fear out of his voice. “No Jon.” Martin tries to check the time and date on his phone, but it refuses to turn on. He can’t decide if this is a good sign or not, and settles instead for it being frustrating. “No phone.” From here, his best option is to wait for Jon, but Martin has no way of knowing when Jon will come through – or if he has done so already, or if he will never emerge. Frowning, Martin wonders if going to London or the safehouse in Scotland is the better option while he waits for Jon. He doesn’t really want to do either. The thought of Jon waking up in that basement, alone and afraid and vulnerable, is one that Martin doesn’t want to dwell on – let alone the idea that he might never wake from whatever state he was in last time Martin saw him, might stand, motionless, forever, always waiting for the last part of that statement. Nor does he want to stay in Hilltop Road a minute longer than necessary. Torn by indecision, Martin stands on the pavement, watching a spider scuttle amongst the debris before it disappears from sight. He wonders what Jon would think of that – what he would think of any of this – of Martin’s refusal to kill him in order to avert the apocalypse. He has a sinking suspicion that, had they been able to talk about what to do in the moment, they would have ended up arguing about it. Jon always has been self-sacrificing and reckless – and there is a reason he didn’t tell Martin what he was planning before writing his request to be killed on the list.

He decides on London, in the end. It’s closer anyway, and he at least knows that, whenever he is, the relative lack of safety in the Institute is a constant. Nobody is surprised to see him walking the halls. Rosie greets him as he makes his way past reception, and Martin slips all too easily back into invisibility when moving among the researchers and scholars that populate the above-ground levels of the Magnus Institute. Even Jonah, who he passes in the hallway while heading down to the Archives, does not comment on his presence, brushing past him in a huff on his way to some urgent meeting. In that moment, Martin understands why Melanie spent so long plotting to kill him. Even without a bullet singing sweet violence along his bones, he can’t help but think that it would be so easy to follow him to his office and murder him quietly. To end the monster who has ruined their lives. He has to stop in the hallway to remind himself of why that would be a bad idea, especially now, with no escape plan, no way out, no alibi. First, he thinks, he has to find Jon, and then they can kill Jonah and escape the Institute’s clutches together. The thought makes him smile as he continues down to the basement. It’s not exactly romantic, plotting a murder and getaway for the two of them, but nonetheless Martin longs for the day when they can do it. When they can at last be free to be themselves. No Beholding, no Forsaken, no Web or Vast or any of the other entities. Just him and Jon, safe and happy. His steps quicken on the stairs, eager to be reunited with him.

Martin feels at home the moment he steps over the threshold to the Archives, into the crowded stacks of paper, the boxes piled high haphazardly. It’s quiet, and warm, and slightly musty, and even the fluorescent lights are familiar and comforting in their flickering brightness. He can’t help but smile, walking over to Jon’s office. The door isn’t locked – the lock was broken years before Jon ever became Archivist – and swings open easily to reveal Gertrude Robinson, mid statement. She stops, turns of the recorder, looks at him. For the moment before she re-assumes her harmless persona, Martin understands why everyone was afraid of her.

“Yes?” Gertrude says, picking up her glasses from the desk and putting them on, as if without them she can’t see him.

“ _Gertrude Robinson_.” He blurts out. His first thought is that it has worked. “You’re – sorry, I was expecting someone else.” Quelling his disappointment at Jon not being there, Martin tries to make the best of the situation.

“And who might you be?” Dismissal is heavy in her tone as she looks him up and down.

“Oh. I’m Martin Blackwood. Archival assistant.” Martin smiles nervously, glancing at the pile of books on her desk. He wonders if any of them are Leitners. Unseen by Martin, Gertrude casts him a suspicious look.

“No, you aren’t. I don’t have any assistants.” In the same sharp tone, she effectively dismisses him, and, pushing the statement away, Gertrude stands up. Automatically, Martin takes a step backwards.

“God, you don’t, do you? Have you been to America yet?” As is usual when he gets nervous, Martin has started to ramble. He steps out of Gertrude’s way as she leaves her office, following her as she attempts to lose him in the labyrinthine twists of the Archives.

“I just got back.” She replies shortly. Martin almost stops dead, realising that he has arrived just before she dies.

“I’m sorry about Gerry. Jon said you two were close.” Catching back up to her as she stops by a seemingly random set of shelves, Martin tries to remember what else Jon had said about Gertrude’s America trip.

“Hm.” In what might be the first true sign of humanity he’s seen in her, Gertrude takes a moment before continuing, her grip on the box in front of her tightening slightly. “Who is Jon?” She turns to look at him, and Martin has the distinct impression that he has just now managed to get her attention.

“Jonathan Sims. He’s wonderful. He’s – uh – he’ll be in research now.” Promptly going bright red, Martin can’t help but smile as he thinks of Jon. Gertrude appears unimpressed by his clear fondness, narrowing her eyes as she looks harder at him.

“And what _will_ he be?” She asks. Martin only gapes in shock for a second before replying.

“He’s your successor.” This, too, does not impress her. She sniffs haughtily, going back to her box of statements.

“I rather hoped that would be Sasha James.” Eventually, she deigns to break the silence, selecting a statement with the same look of vague distaste that she has been turning on Martin.

“Oh.” He squeaks. Somehow, the thought that Sasha – the real Sasha – might be there if the succeeded hadn’t occurred to him on the long train ride down from Scotland. “Why – why Sasha?”

“She has certain qualities I feel are important to the task she will need to complete.” Martin hesitates, looking towards the door to the Archives. He knows he should go and find Jon as fast as possible so he can make sure he’s safe.

“Can you tell me about her?” He asks, following Gertrude back through the shelves to Jon’s office – her office, now.

“Oh.” Unlike Martin, she doesn’t sound surprised, just slightly put out. “The Stranger, I assume?” If it weren’t Gertrude Robinson talking, Martin would think she sounds tired.

“Yes.” He replies. The memory of that thing is still sharp – limbs slightly too long, smile too wide, eyes too bright, a mockery of the Sasha that his mind still insists had been real. Offering no condolences, Gertrude merely sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“And what about Jon? What got him?” Flinching, Martin glances unconsciously towards the door of the Archives. Gertrude purses her lips, and some of her persona slips – enough that Martin is frightened of her all over again. “Hm. He won, then.”

“No.” Glaring defiantly towards the direction of Jonah’s office, Martin draws himself up to his full height. “Not yet he hasn’t.”

“Perhaps I should have chosen you as my replacement.” She says dryly.

“I don’t like the statements.” Martin replies, shrugging easily, as though that comes close to explaining the dread which he feels around them, the exhaustion and guilt after reading them, the lingering terror that clings to them like dust.

“Does Jon?”

“I think so – maybe. He needs to _know_. To understand.”

“Has he died?” Again, Martin flinches, resisting the urge to follow the siren call of the Forsaken. His hands curl into fists.

“Yes. And I’m not letting it happen again.” Voice clipped and angry and pained, Martin’s fingernails dig faint halfmoons into his palms as his fists tighten and relax, over and over in an attempt at finding calm.

“Hm.” She is silent for a long time, regarding him like a particularly interesting crossword puzzle. “I’m going to give you some advice, and you won’t like it, but I am right about this.” Putting the statement down on her desk, Gertrude turns to face him properly. None of that soft lie remains – everything about her now is harsh and unyielding. Like a cliff, Martin thinks, if a cliff hated him. “He’s too far gone. The need to know _alone_ is alarming. If he’s already died – and if _Elias_ nearly won – then he is a danger to you and to the world. Stop him.” His blood runs cold with fear, and he once again has to ignore the Lonely calling him, whispering that he need only choose it, and all his struggles will be over.

“That’s why I’m here – so we can stop this, so we can be _happy_ together.” He says desperately, pretending that she hasn’t just told him to kill Jon.

“You can’t. There’s only one way to stop a monster, and I recommend you do it soon.” If Gertrude sounds more bitter than usual, Martin doesn’t notice, the memory of Jon being dragged, dead, from the rubble of the Unknowing swimming behind his eyes.

“I won’t.” With a defiant upwards tilt of his head, Martin takes a deliberate step away from Gertrude. “Not – not now, not ever.” There is disappointment in her eyes as she looks him up and down.

“Well I certainly hope Jon takes a more _realistic_ view of your chances.” She says, and Martin needs to leave before she can say anything else. The warm mustiness of the Archives has become overwhelming, no longer comforting, but instead claustrophobic, the walls seemingly closing in around him as he retreats, muttering excuses for the fear rising in his throat. He needs to find Jon. He needs to warn him away from Gertrude Robinson. By the time he reaches the door, Martin turns and all but runs up the stairs, away from the uncompromising woman in the Archives and her judgemental eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back again folks!
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me so far and please do let me know how the rise has been down below
> 
> -Jay


	5. A Homecoming

Jon Knows where Elias is. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he Knows where Elias’s body is being piloted by Jonah Magnus. As he enters the Institute, the Knowledge drops into his mind like a lead weight – cold and solid and inevitable – and he makes his way down to the Archives without hesitating. He has never paid much attention to other institute employees before, but now, as he passes them, Knowledge starts to trickle in in random bursts. A new baby, a friend recently died, a crush, frustration at a case. Jon doesn’t want to Know about them. He doesn’t want to have that in his mind when he kills Jonah and, by extension, everyone working for him. More punishment, Jon thinks miserably, trying not to think about the fact that the Knowledge has not discouraged him in the slightest from his murderous thoughts. He has no weapon, and barely any plan beyond discovering if there is any way to find Martin and then doing Jonah as much harm as possible before severing his connection to the Eye permanently by whatever means are necessary.

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs down to the Archives, Jon hesitates, one hand on the handle as he mentally prepares himself for what he has to do. He wonders if Jonah stood like this before murdering Jurgen Leitner in his office, if he felt excited, afraid, confused, or simply numb. The door swings open without resistance before him, hitting the wall with a bang and bouncing back closed as he storms in. Jonah has his back to the door, and barely manages to turn around before Jon is upon him, advancing until Jonah is leaning back against a desk to get away from him, looking vaguely surprised and a little impressed by Jon’s anger.

“ _Where is Martin?”_ He hisses, almost shaking with fury and fear. One of the eyes on his hand opens again unobtrusively, rolling to look up at Jonah with curiosity. Neither one of them notices it – Jonah is preoccupied with regaining control of the situation, whereas for Jon it is simply one more unimportant bit of pain to brush away and ignore, even as a thin trickle of blood runs down his hand to the end of his ring finger.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Jonah replies immediately and clearly. Both he and Jon look briefly shocked as they realise what he has just managed to do. The moment doesn’t last long, as Jon steps backward again, rubbing his eyes roughly as he tries to focus, to chase away the exhaustion and hunger gnawing at him. He needs a statement, he Knows that he needs a statement, but he is so afraid of somehow getting it wrong again and losing all hope. Besides, he thinks, it’s not as if he could actually do much harm by dying – much the opposite, in fact. “Are you _quite_ alright, Jon?” Halfway between fear and bitterness, Jon laughs. It is not a nice laugh, and it doesn’t stop for nearly a whole minute, shoulders shaking so violently that it’s not clear whether he is crying as well as he tilts his head back, staring into the flickering fluorescent lights overhead as he wonders how long the Eye is going to take killing him – months, days, years or hours. He decides that he doesn’t particularly care, as long as he gets to kill Jonah first.

“ _Alright?_ Is that supposed to be some kind of _joke?”_ Looking back down again, Jon glares at Jonah with the kind of hatred he’s never quite been able to muster before. His gaze is intense, eyes just the wrong shade of green as the Eye watches through him, drinking in Jonah’s confusion, his desire for knowledge that he cannot have. “Do you have any _idea_ what we’ve been through? Do you even _care?_ ” Clearly puzzled by his behaviour, Jonah doesn’t reply. He looks almost as if he’s struggling to Know something, which is not an expression Jon has ever seen on his face before. He had assumed, before that exact moment, that Jonah could just Know whatever he wanted about him without even trying. Jon’s breathing is uneven and ragged as he tries to draw himself upright again, feeling the pain increase with a kind of grim satisfaction. Closing his eyes for a second, he fights back dizziness and nausea to remain upright. When he opens his eyes again, he realises that he is not alone with Jonah in the Archives, and tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes. 

His legs threaten to give out again, his left leg buckling and sending him stumbling sideways into a desk. Barely closed, the fresh wounds hidden beneath his clothes tear open again, starting to bleed anew. Jon is well practiced at ignoring pain, and he continues standing upright stubbornly. Even so, he wishes that he had thought to take his cane with him when he had, for whatever reason, left the safehouse.

“ _Tim?_ ” Cruel, he thinks. It is cruel of whatever or whoever has done this to take Martin away from him and return Tim, alive and unharmed. “You’re - you’re _alive_.” No scars, not even from the worms. None of the anger that had been there before. Tim stands by his desk, confused and worried, glancing at a woman who Jon doesn’t recognise - can’t recognise, no matter how hard he tries. Sasha, he realises. The name still dredges up memories of the thing that had replaced her, but – Jon wants to cry. He might be doing so already. “ _Sasha_.” He says, and then the tears do come in earnest as Jon holds himself up, leaning on one of the desks for support. Shaking and weakened, Jon doesn’t hear their concern, or notice as Sasha leads him to a chair to sit down. Instead, he watches Jonah, sees the frustration, the awful curiosity on his face. Looking into his eyes, Jon is afraid. He sees him stand up straighter, brushing down his suit with an air of disdain, and make some excuse to Tim before leaving in somewhat of a hurry. Jon’s ears are ringing, and he can barely hear the familiar stranger trying to comfort him, let alone Jonah as he walks out. Here, more than before, he feels watched, as though every eye in the institute is upon him at once. It is an oppressive weight on him, one that stops his moving, paralysed with fear and anticipation as he struggles to keep the Eye from taking over.

“Boss?” Tim sits on the desk in front of him, leaning over to see Jon better. He should be dead, Jon thinks. Nothing here makes any sense. The Eye offers him Knowledge, and Jon resists for as long as he can. “Hey, bossman. You there?” Glancing at the stranger – Sasha, Jon reasons once more – Tim swings his legs over the desk so that he’s sat right in front of Jon. To no avail, he waves a hand in front of Jon’s face. An exhausted passenger in his own body, Jon does not respond, continuing to watch without moving as he feels the building power of the Eye start to take over, welcoming him home. He sees Tim’s hesitant concern as he reaches out, tilting Jon’s face towards to light to check his pupil dilation.

“Is he on drugs?” The stranger asks, tilting her head sideways. Sasha, Jon thinks firmly, mentally scolding himself for failing to remember. At least her voice is almost familiar, enough that he can remember it belongs to the real Sasha.

“Jon? On drugs?” He hears the amusement in Tim’s voice fade, replaced by worry, and Jon hates himself for making that happen. Tim and Sasha exchange a significant look. “Do you think he can hear us?” As they look back at him, Jon tries to reply. His lungs don’t work properly, not drawing in enough air for him to speak.

“I don’t know… Jon?” She crouches down next to him, examining his face carefully for any sign of recognition. After several seconds, she shakes her head, standing up again. Jon wishes he could explain. “Doesn’t look like it. Where did Elias go off to?”

“Fuck if I know. He just ran.” Almost absentmindedly, Tim flips off the door through which Jonah left. The stranger laughs. It’s a nice laugh, Jon thinks vaguely through the fear.

“Huh.” Crouching back down next to him, she looks at his hand, where the eye has closed again, leaving only a tear that is slowly bleeding. The others around it have not reopened but remain reddened and raw. “What’re these?” She asks, looking up at Tim.

“I don’t – I haven’t seen him either.” Shrugging, Tim drops off the desk, looking at the marks on Jon’s face.

“Jon?” The stranger – Sasha, Jon thinks yet again – puts one hand over Jon’s, trying again to find any response. When, again, he fails to do so, she takes her hand away.

“ _Holy shit!_ ” Tim stumbles into the desk, taking a moment to compose himself. The eye has opened again, and it looks from side to side, drinking in its surroundings. Jon can hear someone making pained gasps, and he realises that it is him as another eye open – this one from where the corkscrew scar should be on his leg. And then another, high on his neck, and another, and another, all watching and seeing and beholding. His eyes roll back in his head as he slumps sideways and backwards. It hurts so much – the pain of every mark he has received by the Entities, combined and magnified and focussed in every wound.

“Martin.” He begs in between choked noises of anguish. “I need –” Gasping, he jerks upright, turning his unseeing eyes on the stranger – on Sasha. “I need to know he’s safe.” She doesn’t reply, glancing at Tim with clear alarm as Jon watches them both. “ _Is Martin safe?”_ His eyes are every colour at once and frighteningly intense as he compels the familiar stranger.

“I don’t know.” The words fall out of her mouth almost before she processes his question, as if they are eager to answer him. Jon shakes like a leaf in a strong wind, eyes opening and closing at random all over his skin. There is a terrible knowledge just out of reach of him, and he knows the Eye wants him to take it, to use it. It whispers along his bones, sings to him, tells him he is marked, he is ready, he is powerful, more powerful than he knows. He is scared of it, and recoils mentally, desperate for the comfort of Martin.

“ _Where is he?_ ”

“I don’t _know_. I don’t know who you mean.” Now she sounds afraid of him, and tears begin to roll from the corners of every one of his eyes as he tries to stop and finds he can’t. Something, he knows, is building to a crescendo, and Jon doesn’t know how to stop it. He tears his gaze away from Sasha with some effort, rolling his eyes up to stare into the ceiling lights.

“Please. I need to Know.” His shaking begins to subside as Jon takes several deep breaths to prepare himself for his last-ditch effort to sabotage whatever the Eye is trying to make him do. “ _How do I find him?_ ” All his eyes open at once, as wide as possible, and he staggers to his feet with awkward, jerky movements. And then it starts to go wrong. The Eye does not appreciate being its gifts being turned against it. Ink begins to trickle from the corner of Jon’s mouth as the eyes close and disappear, leaving only the messy holes where they used to be, bleeding openly. He stands there for almost a second longer before his eyes roll back in their sockets and he drops to the ground like a rag doll, unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey folks! 
> 
> new chapter, same old trauma. Let me know what you think so far!
> 
> \- Jay


	6. Salted rain

Martin finds his way to the kitchen on autopilot. The battered old kettle is a comfort he feels far too grateful for, rooting around in the cupboards as it boils loudly. He finds a pair of mugs and a battered box of teabags that must be about a century old and makes tea for himself and Jon. Sugar in one, waiting, then the bags are disposed of and a splash of milk put in both. The actions are familiar, reassuring, allowing him to shut off his whirring mind for several minutes and simply exist in that space. It is only looking down at the two mugs that he realises he hasn’t actually talked to Jon properly since going out for tea in Scotland. He hasn’t even seen him since Hilltop Road. There’s no guarantee that Jon will even be at the institute – or even in this time at all. Martin tries to remember whether Gertrude had said anything about having talked to Jon recently, but all that he can think of is her instruction to kill him. When he tries to pick up the mugs, his hand goes through the handle like fog. This doesn’t concern him as much as it should. He breaths out, feeling the Lonely in his lungs, and thinks of Jon. Of his abashed smile, the way he runs his hands distractedly through his hair when he’s rambling, all big gestures and far off eyes. His hand slotting into place in Martin’s, like it is made to be there. Martin is not Lonely anymore. It doesn’t take long for him to be solid enough to pick up the mugs, warmth seeping through his knuckles to the rest of him.

He hasn’t been to Research before. Working in the Library, the research assistants always came to him with their requests – or with their Leitners. Even then, it was usually Tim who had come down from Research, taking out their books on clowns, gossiping about co-workers, telling Martin about the latest case they were working on. Jon had never once visited the Library, always managing to get Tim to go in his place. It was the Lietners, Martin knew. They unnerved him, and with good reason. But Martin had never been to Research, and Jon had never gone to the Library. Ships passing in the night – except that makes Martin think of Peter Lukas, which he really doesn’t want to do. The stairs are empty, and Martin takes his time, making sure the tea doesn’t spill. He pushes open the door to Research with his foot, slipping in quietly.

And then he sees Jon. Chuckling at some joke Tim has made, his hair pulled back into an austere bun, he looks happy. There is less tiredness about his eyes than Martin is used to seeing, and he is unscarred. Martin had almost forgotten what Jon had looked like before the Fears had taken their toll on him, and all that he can do now is stare at him lovingly.

“Can I help you?” He sounds far too harsh, and Martin feels the first chills of fear as he tries to ignore what he knows to be true.

“Jon.” Stepping forwards, he can’t keep the fondness out of his voice, or the smile from breaking through. “It’s – it’s me.” Martin wants to reach out to Jon, to make him recognise him, do the impossible again and remember the future.

“You alright, Marty?” Ignoring Tim, Martin moves forward, examining Jon’s expression more carefully until he can no longer deny the blank, heart-breaking confusion. This Jon has never met him. This Jon does not love him.

“Oh god.” He says, trying desperately to keep his grip on the mugs rather than disappear into mist and loneliness again. “I made you tea.” Pushing Jon’s mug across the desk to him, Martin wills him to somehow remember.

“Alright. Thank you, I suppose.” That look of blank confusion persists, and Martin has to look away for a moment, forcing himself to remain, to remember that he is not lonely anymore. When he looks back, Jon is drinking his tea, looking slightly surprised that Martin has made it exactly as he likes it.

“Jon, I need you to listen to me.” Drawing himself up to his full height, Martin looks hard at Jon, with as much of the Archivist stare in it as he can reproduce from memory.

“Getting a bit weird now, Marty.” Tim puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to stop him, but Martin brushes it off, continuing to look at Jon.

“You need to quit. As soon as possible. This place, it’s not good for you.” There is a moment of stunned silence. Jon glances at Tim as if to check if he can hear this too. “It’s not good for any of us.” Realising he’s ended up leaning over Jon’s desk, Martin steps backward awkwardly, pulling at the sleeve of his jumper.

“Right. I’ll – think about it.” Sounding awkward, Jon looks again at Tim. Martin can’t quite bring himself to let him go just yet.

“Please, Jon. I wouldn’t – I’d never lie to you, this is _important_.” Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he blinks them away, half turning to the door.

“You’re in Library, right, Martin?” Tim says, looking at Jon as he speaks.

“ _Oh_.” For a moment, Martin thinks there might be a chance Jon believes him, still clinging to that hope despite himself. “Have you – have you picked up any strange books recently?” He doesn’t reply for a moment, shocked by the implication that he would be that stupid as to just go messing with Leitners with no care for the consequences.

“What – no, I haven’t been going around reading _Leitners_. I’m not an _idiot_ , Jon.”

“Are you sure?” Heart breaking a little more, Martin tries not to let it hurt him too much. Tries to remember that this Jon has no reason to trust him.

“ _Yes_.” Martin looks at him again, eyes full of sadness, and the last of his hope dies. He walks backward, feeling blindly behind him for the door handle. “Fine. Fine, you’ve got no reason to believe me. I’m sorry, this was – this was a bad idea. I’m – I’ll just go.” Finally, he finds it, pulling the door open and nearly fleeing. Despite everything, he hesitates, turns back, takes one last look at Jon before leaving. “Jon – be careful. _Please_.” And then he leaves as quickly as he can, not stopping until he is in a stairwell, alone. His mug drops through his hand, breaking on the stone of the steps and spilling his tea everywhere. Martin doesn’t notice. Half mist, he sobs quietly to himself, all too aware that he’s sliding dangerously close to being Forsaken again. “I’m not lonely anymore. I’m _not_.” He insists – except that being lost in a different time, where the one he loves doesn’t even recognise him, is a very lonely situation indeed. It feels like he’s lying to himself, as he tries to remember the warm feeling he gets when he manages to make Jon smile. Taking deep, shuddering breaths, he steps away from the wall. He feels unsteady on his feet as he manoeuvres between the shards of porcelain mug on the floor. Martin floats through the Institute like a ghost, unnoticed by all. Alone. It’s a useful trick – he manages to dodge both Jonah and Gertrude on his way out, feeling almost completely numb inside following his cry earlier. He doesn’t see Jon, for which he is oddly grateful. Martin isn’t sure he could cope with seeing this Jon again.

It is raining outside. The kind of rain that should be called sleet but isn’t quite snowy enough to qualify. Still slightly damp from the storm they had fled through to Hilltop Road, Martin pulls up his hood and makes his way out into it. Within seconds, he is soaked to the bone, resolving to walk to his flat. A small, bitter voice in his head reminds him that he has nothing else to do anyway. Useless, waste of space, no wonder no one likes him. It sounds a little like his mother, which makes Martin stop dead as he realises she’s still alive. He can’t tell how that makes him feel. Complicated, as grieving her was, as caring for her was, as everything about his mother was. Pushing his hands deeper into his pockets, he presses on, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that he’s somehow making a mistake by walking away from the Institute – like there’s something left unfinished that he needs to do.

He hesitates in the rain, letting it run down his face. It tastes of salt in the corner of his mouth, like sea spray and tears. Bitter. Martin doesn’t know how long he stands there, only half present, growing colder and wetter and lonelier. It is darker when he comes back to himself. He turns around, back to the institute, and begins to walk through the rain again. Nobody passes him on the street. Nobody sees him, nobody notices him. Even Rosie is engrossed in her book and doesn’t so much as look up when he passes her. He feels so lonely that it hurts. Perhaps, he thinks, as he manages to become so insubstantial that he can just walk through the wall of Jonah’s office, Peter Lukas did win after all. Fortunately, Jonah is not in the office when Martin walks in. His portraits are still ominously present – the oil paintings hung along the wall behind his desk that have always had slightly odd eyes, too realistic, with a tendency to follow people around the room. Each of them is in the same pose, from Magnus to Wright. Another sign that they should have seen. Martin flips them off, just in case Jonah happens to be watching through those painted eyes. The idea of him watching from afar makes Martin’s skin crawl. More so, he is afraid of what else Jonah could be doing that would take him away from his office. He wants to go and check on Jon, to make sure he’s safe.

“Bad idea.” Martin mutters to himself, walking around behind Jonah’s desk and opening the third drawer on the left. Employee forms. One, half filled out, promoting Jon to head Archivist, that Martin takes and crumples into a damp ball in his pocket. There are only three resignation forms. Martin takes one and fills it out quickly, and then angles it so it’s in the centre of Jonah’s desk before putting the others back in his drawer. Next, he logs into Jonah’s computer – password W4tcher – and gives himself two weeks paid leave. And just like that, Martin never has to work for the Magnus Institute again.

It feels anticlimactic – like severing his connection to a malicious entity has had no impact on him whatsoever. Martin stands behind Jonah’s desk and wonders if it’s changed anything at all – or if he’s already marked far too deeply to be let go through a piece of paper. Most likely, he thinks, is that the Eye is tied to him through Jon, and Martin refuses to sever their connection. No more Institute. No more creepy, omniscient boss, no more Lietners, no more statements. At least until Jon arrives. He resists the urge to talk to him again, to have another try at convincing him. It won’t go well, he knows that. Still, it is hard to leave by himself again. Martin can’t help thinking of the last time he’d left the institute, arm in arm with Jon, clinging to his warmth to ward off the Lonely. Jon had tucked a blanket around his shoulders, each carrying a bag with all their worldly possessions as they left for Scotland. It feels like a lifetime ago. Both so broken, but so hopeful. Fresh from the Forsaken, feeling like they could do anything, if it was only together. That had felt triumphant. Now, standing in the freezing rain once again, Martin feels like he’s been defeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well hello again folks
> 
> yes I have been procrastinating on uni work why do you ask  
> let me know if this chapter made you feel things 
> 
> \- Jay


	7. Old faces

He has already made up his mind to stay behind after work by the time he regains consciousness. The sooner he gets into the tunnels, the sooner he can arrange Jonah’s death, and the sooner they can all be free of him. Tim is against this plan even without Jon mentioning it.

“Right, we’re taking the rest of the day off.” Grinning at the stranger – Sasha, Jon reminds himself yet again – Tim makes him sit back down again. Jon is already protesting.

“No – I have something I need to do.” He stands again, dodging Tim and managing to make it to his office door, where he stops with one hand on the handle, his back to the door, ready to flee further if necessary.

“Come on, Jon. It’s not the end of the world if you take the afternoon off.” She says brightly, over her shoulder as she types away on her computer, giving them all the time off.

“I was late this morning.” Jon replies stubbornly. His grip tightens on the handle as his corkscrew wound gives a particularly bad twinge.

“Yeah, and then you attacked Elias, became unresponsive, got covered in eyes and asked me some weird questions before passing out. You’ve earned an afternoon off.” Hesitating, Jon realises that she’s right. More than that, Martin would be saying the same if he were here, and Jon is determined to be the man Martin thinks he is, to prove that he deserves him.

“You’re not going to let me stay, are you?” He says quietly.

“Nope! Come on, we’ll find a café or something.” Tim drapes an arm around Jon’s shoulders for a moment, before he notices the stains on his coat and frowns, retreating a little.

“Fine.” Dropping his hand from the handle, he steps away from his door and tries to ignore the sharp and shooting pain in his leg.

“And you’re going to explain what the hell all that was, too.” The stranger adds, and Jon feels frustrated at himself for failing to recognise her again.

“ _Fine._ ”

“Aw, there’s no need to sound so bitter, boss.” As Tim wanders back over to his desk, grabbing his coat, Jon feels a pang of guilt. He wishes he had been better, in the early days, before Prentiss, when nobody was dead or replaced. Wishes he’d made the most of that time.

“I’m _not_ – I’m just tired. And I have something I need to do. Something _important_.” Glancing back towards his office, Jon wonders if Jonah is watching them as they speak.

“Taking care of yourself is important too. And I’m guessing you haven’t been doing that a lot recently.” She pulls her coat on, raising an eyebrow at him in a way that is familiar like a forgotten dream.

“I have, _actually._ Martin says –” Jon stops suddenly, his heartbreak clear on his face as his shoulder curl forwards, folding in on himself. “He _said_ I was doing a lot better.” It hurts him to use the past tense, to admit that Martin is gone. Hurts more than the eyes, more than the Knowing, more than any mark he has received.

“Was that before or after you gained about a thousand spare eyes?” Despite his light tone, Jon Knows Tim is unnerved, that he doesn’t know if he wants to find out more, that he is thinking of the clown that killed his brother and wondering if Jon has been a monster all along.

“No, that’s – that’s new.” He says with a bitter laugh, looking down at his still bleeding hand.

“Who’s Martin?” The stranger asks, and Jon seems to crumple again, as if the strings holding him up are being cut. He leans heavily on the closest desk – the one that should be Martin’s – as he tries not to think about the possibility that he might never see Martin again.

“He’s – he’s my boyfriend.” Jon smiles to himself. “Martin Blackwood.” When he closes his eyes, he can almost see Martin’s face smiling back at him.

“Oh!” Immediately, Jon regrets telling them both. Specifically, Tim, because they have incredibly differing views on relationships, and he really doesn’t feel up to explaining himself to anyone right now. “I thought you didn’t do that sort of thing.” This, he recognises as Tim’s gossiping voice, which Jon used to find annoying at the best of times.

“I really don’t see how that’s relevant.” Jon snaps, looking up in time to see them both looking slightly crushed by his harsh tone. He feels instantly guilty, caving in on himself once more. “I’ll tell you about him later.” The last thing he wants is for Jonah to be listening in as he talks about Martin.

“I think that’s our cue to go then!” The stranger says cheerfully, turning off her computer. Trying to force recognition, Jon smiles back at her. Sasha, he thinks. Her name is Sasha James, and she is his friend. It feels like a lie.

They don’t talk much, walking down to the café. It’s one Sasha recommends – Jon wonders if it’s the one she will meet Michael in. He is nervous leaving the institute. As much as he is afraid of Jonah and his schemes, Jon is more afraid of what lurks outside. Jon keeps looking around, watching out for any avatars hiding nearby, ready to pounce. It almost seems like a miracle that they reach the café unharmed. He even manages to tell Tim which tea he wants without breaking down crying at the thought of Martin. And then, when they are all sitting at a table, waiting for their drinks, Jon can no longer put off telling them.

“I need to make sure he’s not listening.” Jon says quietly. “You might need to catch me.” Closing his eyes for a moment, he takes several deep breaths. Then he opens them and Sees.

_Jonah Magnus sees himself. His eyes in a stolen body. And he smiles. It is a familiar smile, one that has not changed with his bodies. He reaches into his pockets, taking out what looks like a melon baller._

_And Jon Knows what he is going to do, and why he is going to do it. In Elias Bouchard’s body, he cannot See Jon – but the Panopticon grants unlimited Sight to whoever sits in its throne._

_With steady hands, Jonah Magnus removes his eyes and places them in his own hands. The instant he lets go of them, Elias Bouchard crumples to the floor, screaming in pain. Jonah’s mouth twists into a cruel smile as he puts his eyes back in again, blinks, lets his head roll back and to one side in the ecstasy of being himself again._

_“That’s quite enough of that.” He says, looking with disdain at Elias on the floor. With the full weight of Jonah Magnus’s gaze upon him, Elias falls silent, trembling with fear. Once he is silenced, Jonah looks into the delicate carvings on the walls, and smiles once more as they look back, a hundred thousand eyes gazing back at him. “Now, where is my Archivist?”_

_Jon is afraid, as every eye in that cursed place swivels and strains, looking for him. Still he watches, unable to look away._

_Time flows strangely in that place, and aside from the eb and flow of terror, there is no way to prove that any time has passed at all when Jonah looks away._

_“Interesting.” He says, with laboured breathing. “So, he knows to hide himself. What else does he Know?” In the silence, Elias’s low groans of pain are all too clear. “Do shut up, Bouchard. I’m trying to think.” Eventually, Jonah Magnus smiles once more. “Get up.” He orders, and, shuddering, Elias obeys. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to do this again. I need a face that Jonathan Sims will trust. And he doesn’t trust you anymore.”_

_“No.” Elias replies, fearful even as he holds out his hands for Jonah Magnus’s eyes. They are placed carefully in his palms, and then Jonah Magnus puts his own eyes back in and smiles with Elias’s mouth._

Jon falls sideways, gasping for air as eyes fill his lungs and strangle his veins. Neither of them catches him before he hits the ground, wounds tearing open all over again. Perhaps there is no time for them to move – or perhaps they are unwilling to touch him. He doesn’t know how to feel about that, pushing himself back upright and onto his chair as he tries to ignore the pain. The Eye whispers that he is a monster – its monster, its Archivist – and he doesn’t want to listen to it.

“ _Jon?”_ He realises too late that the stranger has been talking to him and looks guiltily at her. “Are you alright?” She asks, concern on her face as he tries to recognise her.

“No.” Jon replies eventually, wanting Martin back with every fibre of his being. “Jonah isn’t watching us though, which means I can tell you _everything_.”

“Jonah? Jonah _Magnus?_ ” Leaning forwards, Tim nearly knocks his tea over.

“Yes.” He sounds exhausted, weighed down by Knowledge. “Do you know about Smirke’s fourteen?” Both of them nod, clearly confident.

“Yes. Fourteen fears into which all others can be categorised.” Tim says shortly, and Jon remembers why he knows about Smirke with a rush of guilt.

“The great and _terrible_ Dread Powers that sit in the spaces between worlds and _feed_ on our terror and loathing.” He intones solemnly, like it’s a statement. “Jonah Magnus serves the Eye, the Beholding, the Ceaseless Watcher who Sees and Knows all and through him, so do we all.” The words scare him as they tumble, unstoppable, from his lips. “He attempted the ritual of the Watcher’s Crown, to bring forth a new world of Beholding, and failed. But the Eye left him a gift. While he sits in the Panopticon, in the centre of the tunnels below the institute, he can See _everything_. Everything except – except me.”

“Why?” The familiar stranger frowns at him, interrupting, and Jon takes a moment to catch up to reality, afraid to start inadvertently statement-speaking again.

“I don’t Know. Somehow, I’m a blind spot. Which doesn’t make _any_ sense.” His hands curl into fists, fingernails digging shallow half-moons into his palms.

“Where were you yesterday?” She asks. Jon remembers the taste of ash in his mouth, the car hitting him, the bright hospital lights, and shrinks back.

“The first thing I remember is Hilltop Road. I was alone, and I was here, whenever _here_ is. And then I got lost and tried to Know where Martin was, and the Eye nearly killed me for it. That’s when the car hit me.” Staring numbly at the table, Jon traces meaningless shapes with his finger.

“You were hit by a _car?_ ” Tim asks, leaning forwards again as Jon waves this point away, dismissing it as unimportant – which, compared to the terrible reality of waking up alone in a timeline where Martin does not exist, it is. Though he can still remember how it felt, bones shattering, body twisting as it should not twist, Jon can also remember worse pains. It feels no different from those, except perhaps less fearful.

“Yes, and I got better. Georgie Barker checked me out of hospital, and then I decided to go to the Institute and kill Jonah Magnus. Any questions?” He looks up sharply, glancing between the two of them as if challenging them to say anything further about it.

“You said whenever.” Almost accusatory, the familiar stranger narrows her eyes at him. Her name, Jon thinks stubbornly, is Sasha. He hates that he can’t remember that. He hates that she is now a stranger to him, when the thing that replaced her infects all his memories where she ought to be, like a virus in his mind.

“Oh. That.” Jon says quietly, looking down at his hands again. “Yes, I’m from the future.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good evening folks
> 
> here, enjoy this chapter, and let me know if it was worse emotionally than the last.
> 
> \- Jay


	8. A Lonely Spider

He hasn’t returned to the Institute. Perhaps it is cowardice, to give up on this Jon so easily, but Martin can’t face that imposing stone building again, let alone those that lurk inside it. Instead, he throws himself into his new job at the British Library, finding himself unexpectedly and begrudgingly grateful to Elias for providing the glowing reference that gets him the job. It’s almost a dream job – quiet, no interaction with the public, and with plenty of free time spent wandering the stacks and reading. Apart from the odd Leitner to be taken out and burnt, buried or dropped into the Thames, Martin spends his days in relative peace, and hates it. The Library is lonely – not Forsaken, but bad enough that he is unpleasantly reminded of it, of how it had felt to slide inevitably into the cold, isolated fog. And without Jon, he finds himself struggling with that creeping loneliness again, clinging to ever shrinking scraps of humanity as he tries to keep himself solid. His visits to Hilltop Road are depressingly unenlightening, and they dwindle from every other day to once a week and finally to monthly pilgrimages, spending an hour in that basement talking to Jon and hoping that he can hear him. He is no longer alone on these visits. Annabelle Cane has taken to waiting for him there, just out of sight in the basement. Mostly, he ignores her, tries not to think too hard about what she says, about the fact that he believes her when she says Jon has not yet emerged from the portal, or when she tells him that he would be well suited to the Web. He’s always been worryingly good at lying, and he doesn’t need her to tell him that. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him which Entities he might be serving with every action – that he can worry about on his own terms, long into the dark, lonely night.

Sometimes, Gertrude will arrive while he’s at work, or at home, or visiting his mother, and ask him for some information she needs before careening off again, throwing herself at whatever latest threat has briefly forgotten to be afraid of her. His mother likes her, nice Ms. Robinson who always makes sure to bring along a bottle of something when she drops by, and whose stories are always so entertaining. They get along like a house on fire – an analogy that Martin hopes doesn’t become literal. Martin tells his mother about Jon. Not everything, of course – not that he is bound to an ancient fear entity, or that he is currently lost somewhere in between time and space – or that Mrs. Robinson, who’s so nice to her and comes over and visits him every week, wants him to murder Jon to save the world. He tells her as much as he can, though, and she appears to appreciate it when he makes up coffee dates and trips to Scotland, holidays they never got to take and presents he wanted to buy Jon before it all went wrong. There is still the hurtful despise in her eyes when she looks at him, but she at least tolerates him more than before, and even makes him promise to visit her in the nursing home, which Martin takes as a small victory. When she first asks him to bring Jon over to meet her, he almost cries. And then he makes his excuses – lies and deflects and redirects her – because Jon, his Jon, is still lost in the portal, adrift in time. Even so, he hopes that, once Jon arrives, once they have killed Jonah and saved the institute employees, he can take him to meet his mother.

Martin doesn’t trust Gertrude. He has seen the cold steel she hides beneath layers of cardigans and tea, and he recognises her lies and plotting like a warped reflection of himself. Most importantly – at least to Martin – she is still convinced that Jon needs to die. This, more than anything she has done or will do, is unforgivable in his eyes. It is this that keeps him from telling her when and where she will die. Both of them know that it will be Jonah – although she still insists upon calling him Elias – in the end, and both know that she will not change any action she takes that will lead her to her death, even if she were to know what those actions are.

It is on a cold morning, just as winter is beginning to think of thawing into spring, not long after Martin’s mother moves into a nursing home, that Gertrude visits him for what will be the last time. Her arm is in a well-worn homemade sling, and she looks tired, stood in his kitchen as he boils the kettle and listens to her explaining the Watcher’s Crown.

“The Ritual of the Eye – I haven’t been too concerned about it, but Elias is getting too confident recently, so I thought some research was advisable.” She looks shaken, he realises, more than he has ever seen her before. Whatever she has decided to do, whatever she has learnt, Martin knows where it will lead. Gasoline in the Archives and three bullets to the chest. An almost mundane death for the Archivist, all things considered. Practical, efficient, distinctly unsupernatural. Martin is already planning for it, packing his bags with essentials, stockpiling food in preparation to disappear. “I believe that it was tied to Millbank Penitentiary. One of Smirke’s buildings, you understand. The Institute is built where it once stood, which I can’t believe is a coincidence. It was demolished in 1890 – which also happens to be the year that our _esteemed founder_ disappeared.” She says, with barely concealed disdain as Martin makes them both tea – one Earl Grey, no milk or sugar, and one English Breakfast, splash of milk, heaped spoon of sugar. Martin keeps his eyes low, disposing of the teabags quickly. “The question is whether he will attempt it again.” Now he does look up, thinking of the statement that made everything go wrong.

“You think that’s what Jon was doing?” Holding the mug cradled in his hands, Martin wonders how much Jon was aware of what was happening. It is not the first time, nor will it be the last that he has wondered this. Gertrude regards him with interest, picking up her mug and taking a long sip as he resists the urge to fidget.

“Do you?” She asks eventually, raising an eyebrow. Deflection, trying to plant the seeds of doubt, all tactics Martin is familiar with. His chin raises a few degrees in defiance as he glares at her.

“No. He wouldn’t.” It speaks to how long they have held this grudging truce that Martin’s voice does not waver as he stares her down.

“Hm. Neither do I, although I can’t say I share your faith in Jonathan Sims.” For a moment, she pauses, assessing Martin carefully. “Are you aware he escaped the Web as a child?”

“Yes. He told me.” Allowing himself anger, sharp and sure, Martin almost sounds offended at the suggestion. The idea that Jon would have hidden that from him, that he didn’t in fact know him at all. He refuses to think of Peter Lukas and his insidious suggestions – both in love with a warped ideal of the other.

“Hm.” Gertrude sounds disappointed by this, sipping at her tea. “Well, that’s beside the point. The Watcher’s Crown failed because the Rituals will always fail. I believe _Elias_ knows this by now. No single Entity can come through at once, any more than an arm can be summoned without the rest of the being it is attached to.” The creeping sense of dread that Martin is so familiar with returns.

“Oh _god._ ” He whispers, leaning back against the countertop to stay upright. “So that’s what it was – a Ritual to summon _all_ of them.” For a moment, he wonders what would have happened had he not turned back, if he hadn’t been in time to stop Jon from finishing the statement.

“It does seem the most likely explanation.” Taking another sip of her tea, Gertrude shifts her bound arm uncomfortably.

“Oh god. Oh _Jon._ ” Martin needs to hug him, to hold him close enough that the rest of the world doesn’t matter. The warmth of his mug is a poor substitute. He thinks about doors and spiders, about the tear in reality at Hilltop Road, and about Annabelle Cane, who is there when he visits now. She calls him a lonely little spider with too many eyes, tells him that the Mother of Puppets can help him. A Ritual for all of the Entities – Martin is afraid for Jon all over again.

“Of course, he would have needed to be prepared for it.” Gertrude says, and the thought makes Martin feel guilty. All the things that have claimed the Archivist for their own and he never even noticed. He wonders if that’s what he is, if he’s just the latest in a long line of Things trying to claim the Archivist. “If he has been, then it’ll be too late to save him.”

“You’re wrong.” Voice clipped and tense, Martin puts his tea down on the counter. The sound is loud in the silence between them.

“Am I?” She asks, smiling poisonously, and he wants to throw her out of his apartment. He’d almost prefer to be at the nursing home with his mother.

“Yes. It might have been too late in the future, but once he gets here, we’ll fix everything. Together.” Refusing to doubt Jon even for a second, Martin crosses his arms firmly and glares at her.

“Hm.” Again, she shifts uncomfortably, taking another sip of tea as Martin wonders how much she is struggling to keep going. “Can you remember what he was saying?”

“Yes.” The words echo around his head when things get too quiet, Jon’s voice not sounding like his own, horrified and overjoyed and inevitable.

“Probably not a good idea to say it out loud.” Gertrude muses, regarding him with interest. “How do you know he won’t remember it too? How do you know he won’t just keep reading?” He doesn’t flinch, even though the fear of that happening has kept him awake for far too many nights – far too good at pretending that nothing affects him. Taking a shaky breath, Martin thinks about the moment he tore that statement in two, about the chewed up static and the awful blank terror on Jon’s face.

“Because I ripped it up and he _stopped._ He just stopped. Stopped talking, stopped _breathing_ , there was so much static, and I don’t know if that was him or not. But he _stopped.”_ His hands shake as he pushes them into his pockets, and he knows that he will dream of it when he next gets to sleep.

“Even if he doesn’t complete the Ritual right away, he won’t be able to hold it off for long.” Looking hard at him, Gertrude smiles poisonously. “There’s only one way to deal with a monster.” Every time she reminds him of this, a chill of fear runs down his spine, cold and deadly.

“He’s _not_. He’s just Jon. My Jon.” Martin insists, a slight tremor entering his voice.

“He’s the _Archivist_.” It is said like an insult, like an accusation.

“What does that make _you_ then?” She doesn’t reply immediately, just smiles and drinks her tea like it is the most exquisite poison. For a moment, Martin wonders why he isn’t afraid of her anymore.

“You didn’t tell me about him stopping before.” Gertrude says calmly, as if they are having a perfectly normal conversation.

“Yeah, well –” She’ll be dead by the end of spring, Martin knows this. He shrugs, tense and angry as he always is by this point in their chats. “You never asked.”

“Hm.” Placing her empty mug on the countertop, Gertrude frowns. “That doesn’t change anything, or course. He’s a monster, and there’s only one cure for that.” His face flushes with anger.

“I can get him out. I can save him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kerchow folks
> 
> if you enjoyed (or indeed if you did not) please let me know down below, it really helps keep me going with this whole writing thing. hope you're all doing alright
> 
> \- Jay


	9. Guilt and Penance

They sit in stunned silence for several minutes, just staring at him. At least, Jon thinks it’s minutes. He can’t really tell, too focussed on remaining human, on the grounding pain, on their faces as they work through his declaration.

“How far?” The stranger asks, and Jon is thrown off as he hears the real Sasha’s voice. Again, he has to remind himself that this is the real Sasha, not a copy.

“I’m sorry?” Jon feels guilty for not understanding – it’s the least he can do to listen when they want him to and understand what they say.

“How far in the future?” She doesn’t sound accusatory or disbelieving, just curious, and Jon wonders if she would have ended up like this if she had been Gertrude’s replacement.

“I don’t – it was 2018. 18th of October. Last I remember, anyway. There's – there’s bits missing.” His hands are shaking, and he takes them off the table, trying for their sakes to remain calm.

“Shit.” As Jon looks over at him, Tim is pinching the bridge of his nose, thinking hard.

“It is a bit, yes.” Jon laughs bitterly, his shoulders caving forwards as he avoids looking at either of them.

“So why didn’t you bring us with you?” It is Sasha’s voice, and if he closes his eyes and concentrates, Jon can almost attach the stranger’s face to it before it slips away like smoke.

“Oh.” He says in a small voice, looking down at the table. “I – I don’t know how I got here.” After a brief hesitation, the words come out all in a rush. “And – and you’re dead.” Again, there is a stunned silence as Jon fidgets with his hands.

“Shit.” Tim says again, staring numbly at the table. Jon Knows he is thinking of Danny.

“Both of us?” The stranger asks.

“Yes. Yes, both of you – I’m sorry. I’m so _sorry._ I should have done more, I should never have asked you to come to the Archives, I should have _noticed it wasn’t you._ ” Now he has started speaking, Jon cannot stop, desperate to earn their forgiveness, their trust. Monster, the Eye whispers lovingly, and Jon doesn’t think that it’s wrong.

“Woah! Jon, calm down.” It is the stranger who interrupts him, stops just short of putting a hand on his shoulder – she is afraid, Jon Knows, of what eyes might open up beneath her touch. “Take a deep breath, keep it together. Just tell us what happened.” He takes several shaky breaths, clinging to the memory of a stability he has not felt in years.

“Jane Prentiss attacked the institute, and in all the chaos and _worms_ and – and – Sasha got separated from us. She was killed by an aspect of the Stranger called the Not-Them.” Tim opens his mouth to say something, but Jon continues before he can, looking pleadingly at the familiar stranger. “It – it _replaced_ her. In photos, in memories, in _everything_ except the tapes and – and _none of us –_ none of us _noticed._ ”

“Right.” The stranger says. She sounds like she is in shock, and Jon desperately wants to say something to make it better.

“ _Sasha,_ I –”

“That explains why you couldn’t recognise me.” Her voice is cold, accusatory, and he shrinks back, unable to meet her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’m so –”

“What about Tim?” Flinching, Jon looks up again. He resists the urge to keep apologising, instead taking a deep breath and clenching his hands into fists.

“He stopped the circus. The Stranger – their Ritual, the Unknowing. He blew it up and killed them all. I was there too and we – we both died.” The Eye gives him the Knowledge of how that had felt all over again, the burning and the crushing weight of the building collapsing on him, exactly what kind of pain had pierced his chest with the twisted metal and sliced him open with the razor edge of plastic shards.

“At least you got better.” He just laughs bitterly, a painful thing that turns too quickly into a hacking cough. He does feel better, as if sharing this terrible knowledge with Tim and the stranger – Sasha, she’s Sasha – has made the Eye pleased with him again. This scares him.

“So, we’re both dead in two years.” There is so much numb shock in Tim’s voice that it is almost unrecognisable.

“Four months. And – a year and a half.” Jon gestures to each of them in turn, looking down at the table miserably.

“Four _months?_ ” Leaning forwards across the table, Tim sounds so angry that Jon flinches, almost collapsing in on himself.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t – I should – I should go.” He pushes his chair back with a screeching sound, almost tipping it over backwards in his hurry to get up. Static rushes in his ears, drowning out their protests as he stands up and stumbles sideways, desperately longing for the security of his cane or even Martin for him to lean on. Gasping in pain, Jon reaches out automatically before he manages to regain his balance.

“ _Jon._ ” He recognises the voice as Sasha’s and blinks several times in an attempt to focus as he feels himself spiralling out of control.

“I’m s – sorry. I’m sorry.” Walking backwards, Jon bumps into two tables before he manages to make it to the door. “I shouldn’t have – I’m sorry.” He flees into the street, barely looking around before he limps down the street as fast as he can, crashing into people as he struggles onwards. Eventually he stumbles into a quiet street, cobbled and narrow and winding and utterly devoid of people. And then he collapses, sitting on the kerb and shaking as tears roll down his cheeks. Jon knows what he has to do, because Jonah has to die. This would be easier, he thinks, if he were dead. Then he could rest for once, and Tim and Sasha would be able to quit, and – his thoughts catch up with him all at once and he looks up, full of fear. The Knowledge scares him – that without him, they are untied from the institute – because Jon does not want to die. Jon wants to live – to live a long and happy life with Martin. The shaking gets worse as he works this new information into his plan, trying to think of someone he can trust to kill Jonah after he’s gone.

“Jon?” Sasha’s voice interrupts his spiralling train of thought. He doesn’t look up, resting his head on his knees as she sits down next to him, pulling out her phone and holding it up to her ear as it begins to dial. “Hey – yeah, I’ve found him. That little side-road by the theatre – see you in a minute.” As she hangs up, the stranger puts an arm around Jon’s shoulders, and he tenses up, unable to trust this small comfort. “Jon, it’s Sasha.”

“Sasha.” He repeats numbly. Sasha, he knows, is dead. Dead like Tim. Their deaths weigh heaviest on him of all those he is responsible for, wake him up crying in the night on the rare occasions he actually sleeps.

“Yes. Sasha. Tim’s just coming in a minute. We couldn’t find you.” Finally, he looks up, turning his gaze on the stranger sat next to him. Jon doesn’t recognise her – can’t recognise her – and that hurts him deeply.

“Don’t go back to the institute.” He pleads, wiping his cheeks roughly. One of the wounds begins bleeding again, a thin trickle of blood down his cheek that he ignores.

“Why not?” Closing his eyes again, Jon focuses on the familiar voice. Sasha’s voice.

“I need to kill Jonah Magnus.” His head drops to rest on his knees again, exhausted at the idea of killing again. Peter Lukas haunts him, the knowledge of what he did, what he can do if he is angry enough and desperate enough. What he could do again. Sometimes he can still feel the dirt under his nails from digging Michael Crew’s grave, the terror flowing like blood through his veins as he had wondered if he would end up digging another grave for himself.

“Yeah, you said. How is he still alive?” There is no fear in her voice, just curiosity – Jon wants to find the words to warn her, to make her afraid so that she will be safe, so that she won’t go looking for deadly answers.

“His _body_ sits in the Panopticon. His eyes are elsewhere. He takes the bodies of others, replaces their minds with his mind as he replaces their eyes with his own.” As he speaks, tone full of dread and terror, the shaking returns, cold and heavy fear creeping along his bones.

“Is it Elias?” She asks quietly.

“Yes.” Jon wonders how none of them saw it before. So many clues they should have noticed, so many warning signs missed.

“That – that explains a lot.” Even now, she doesn’t sound scared, grimly determined as she shrugs at him. “So, we kill Jonah Magnus. I’m up for that.” Perhaps, Jon thinks, this is further punishment from the Eye – to impart terrible Knowledge but have it change nothing, to only ever make things worse. He is afraid, even more than is usual, a vast dread settling over him.

“No. S – Sasha, he’s _dangerous_. And he wants – he wants a new face. A new body. Someone I will trust. Someone who he can _use_ to find out what happened to me. I – I don’t _think_ it will actually be me, but – _Sasha_ , it could be – it could –”

“Right. Won’t let him take my eyes out. Why can’t we _help_ you, Jon?” The stranger with Sasha’s voice is undeterred, and Jon is afraid for her. For Tim, for everyone he is putting in danger by continuing to exist.

“Because if he dies, so do you. And – and everyone in the Institute.” For a third time, there is silence, as the stranger processes this. “I have – I have a way to stop that happening, but it’s dangerous. I’m the only one – it won’t work for anyone else.” He is afraid – so very afraid to die.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m the _Archivist_. Beloved of the Ceaseless Watcher, bringer of a new age.” Even as he speaks, Jon realises the words are not his own, shaking with fear as he tries without success to stop. “I _watch and listen and wait_ and drink in the _fear_ of innocents to feed the Eye.” Something builds within him, deadly and inevitable and filled with the savage joy of the Eye as it gets closer and closer to succeeding in whatever it wants. “I’m a _monster_. Designed for a great and _terrible_ purpose. _Marked and ready and powerful_.” His hands begin trembling as eyes begin opening over his skin again.

“Jon. _Jon._ ” She is shaking him, gripping his shoulders tightly. “Wake up. Come on, Jon.” Gasping, he falls sideways as the words are torn away from him once more, replaced with static. It is only the stranger’s hold on him that keeps him from falling fully to the ground. For several long and awful seconds, Jon can feel every eye in his body, open and watching and swivelling from side to side. It hurts.

“ _Martin_.” Jon pulls away from her as the eyes slowly close again. “I need – I –” Tears begin to spill anew down his face as he remembers that Martin is gone. Here, in this place, in this time, Martin Blackwood does not exist. He allows the stranger – allows Sasha – to comfort him, hugging him tightly for a moment. “I – I miss him _so much_.” Shaking, Jon looks away, stares at the cobbles rather than at the woman he cannot recognise.

“Oh _Jon_.” She says, holding him upright by the shoulders as he threatens to fall again. “Come on, let’s go and find Tim.” Gently, she guides him to his feet, and Jon tries to remember that she is not a stranger, that she is Sasha, that she is his friend, as they walk out into the bright sunlight together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, more Sasha content!
> 
> sorry. everyone's sad right now, and it gets worse before it gets better. As always, let me know what you thought down below!
> 
> \- Jay


	10. A Cane in Hilltop Road

The day has barely dawned when Martin walks down to the station. With him, he carries a cane – polished mahogany, with a rounded end for Jon to lean on, silvery inlay. He’d found it in a charity shop and bought it mostly to convince himself that he would see Jon again. He holds the thing almost reverently, making sure it isn’t bashed against doors or seats or passengers as he sits down. The early morning mist follows him onto the train, curling around his feet, clinging to the floor and walls unnaturally. Once, Martin would have been worried by this, would have panicked and clung desperately to the memories of happiness. Now, he just feels numb. Cold, as he runs his hands over the smooth wood of Jon’s new cane. Determination keeps him from wallowing in being Lonely, from drowning in it. He has to keep going, has to keep watch for Jon, so that when he arrives, they can kill Jonah together. Keep watching, keep planning, keep on going by himself.

Deep down, he knows Jon hasn’t come through this side of the rift yet. There is a painful tugging on his heart that gets stronger the closer he gets to Hilltop Road, a pull that urges him to walk back into the rift and find Jon there. Martin knows this would be stupid. Even so, he makes his pilgrimage to the basement, walking all the way from the station and up the road at a steady, unhurried pace. Annabelle Cane is waiting for him outside. She smiles as she sees him. Sighing, Martin walks past her, descending the stairs one at a time.

“Is he here yet?” Martin asks, forcing himself to look at the tear in reality before him.

“What do you think?” There is a scuttling sound behind him as he looks down at the cane in his hands, and Martin does not want to see what is making it. His thumb traces over a section of the inlay – a watery pattern that doesn’t remind him of anything except itself.

“That’s not an answer.” He says shortly, glancing at her. Unsurprisingly, she is smiling, looking very pleased with herself.

“No. No, it isn’t.” That same scuttling noise comes from behind him, but Martin ignores it, as he has done every other time before, letting the mist swirl a little thicker around him “Do you want to be alone?” Annabelle asks, sounding almost gleeful at the idea, and Martin feels suddenly and unreasonably angry at her.

“No. I just don’t want _you_ here.” Grip tightening on the mahogany cane, Martin looks back at the rift. It is almost preferable to her smile.

“The Mother of Puppets wants me here.” She says.

“I don’t _care._ ”

“No, you don’t, do you?” The mist swirls as if stirred by the breeze, though the air in the basement is still and warm. “Why so Lonely, Martin?” Tensing up, Martin stares at the rift as if willing Jon to come through. Nothing happens as he stands there in silence, eventually bowing his head and sighing.

“Gertrude Robinson dies today.”

“Can’t you stop it?” When he doesn’t reply, Annabelle Cane walks closer, circling him like a predator as he stands still, ignoring her. “Don’t you want to save her?” Martin does not flinch, doesn’t even turn to look at her as he shakes his head.

“No.” He says firmly, without a trace of doubt in his voice. “She wanted to kill Jon.”

“Lots of things want to kill your Archivist, Martin.” The amusement in her tone only serves to rile him up more. He knows this fact already – Jon has been kidnapped, threatened and attacked more than Martin can remember – but Annabelle Cane finding it humorous angers him.

“I suppose you’re _different_.” Martin replies, full of bitterness and frustration and cold anger.

“I am. _We_ have plans for him.” He is afraid – but Martin has been afraid for Jon since he ran back into the Institute feeling as though Jane Prentiss was right behind him every step of the way. Now the fear is almost familiar. “Don’t you want to know what they are?” The scuttling sound returns as she walks behind him, slowly circling around once more. “We have plans for you too, Martin. Do you want to know what _those_ are?”

“I don’t like being manipulated.” Turning his head to glare at her, Martin’s attention is drawn by a spider making its way across her face, unhurried and bold in its movements. It doesn’t disturb him as much as it should – Martin has always liked spiders.

“No, you don’t. But you _love_ manipulating others.” Martin thinks about Peter Lukas for a brief second, and then forces the thought out of his mind. Peter is dead, and whatever part Martin played in leading him to his death, he refuses to feel guilty for that. “You’d make a good spider – unless I’m lying, of course.” At this, she smiles, as if she has just made a particularly funny joke.

“Of course.” He replies, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Does _Elias_ know you’re here?” Annabelle asks, tilting her head to one side in a way that makes Martin think of a puppet.

“No. No, I don’t think he can See me.” Frowning, Martin traces the watery pattern on Jon’s cane again with his thumb, brushing over the smooth surface carefully. It’s a problem that bothers him, not being close enough to the Eye to actually Know why it is Gertrude couldn’t use her spooky powers on him – or why Jonah doesn’t seem to have noticed that he should be existing over two years from now, and doesn’t belong in this time. It’s a question he wishes he had thought to ask Gertrude. But wishing doesn’t change anything, and she had never been one for giving out answers. Particularly not for free. When he looks up, Annabelle is looking at the rift, a thoughtful expression on her face.

“How do you know Gertrude Robinson is going to die today?” She asks, like she already knows the answer, but is talking him through it so he can understand.

“Because I should be there. In the Library. It’s – it’s 9:30, so she’ll be coming out the tunnels right now, carrying an – an _impressive_ amount of kerosene.” Between Jon’s rambling about her death and Gertrude’s own plotting over tea and biscuits, Martin knows the timeline of this day off by heart.

“How do you know your Archivist is still in there? How do you know he isn’t wandering around like a lost puppy out there, looking for you?” Flinching, Martin’s grip on the cane tightens. He is so afraid of somehow having missed Jon that he can’t think of any reply to Annabelle. “How did you see him when you were Forsaken?” The mist is thicker now, clinging to all it touches as Martin remembers that gentle fear. It was easy to exist there, to be lonely – easy apart from the tugging on his heart, the insistent reminder of his way home, back to Jon. Like an anchor, keeping him from drifting into dangerous waters.

“I –” An anchor, he thinks, heart achingly full. “I – oh. _Oh._ ” He beams, looking down at the cane in his hands with a fond warmth that banishes the mist almost entirely. “You don’t know.” Quietly, Martin looks up, examining Annabelle with an intensity that is not entirely his own. “You don’t – you don’t know where he is.” Martin laughs, tilting his head back in an expression of pure joy. “And you think I’ll– what, just tell you?”

“The rift is _ours_.” She replies, sounding much less in control than he has ever heard her before. Just for a moment, Martin feels hopeful, and he seizes that feeling, uses it to fuel him as a slow realisation dawns upon him.

“No – no, I don’t think it is.” Speaking slowly, he smiles at her. It is not a nice smile. “You made it, but so did the Desolation. It’s not a tool, or a weapon – I don’t think you can even _use_ it.” The scuttling sounds nervous now, giving Martin confidence as he steps closer to the rift, looking directly into it and willing Jon to make it through. Something whispers in it, just too quiet and distorted for him to make out actual words. Martin isn’t sure he wants to know what it is saying. His memories of walking through it are muddied and confused, and he cannot remember what it felt like. Most of the time, he is glad of that.

“We pulled the cleaner through – made her taste _true fear_.” Annabelle hisses angrily, half in shadow as she moves around the basement towards him. While Martin isn’t scared, he also isn’t reckless, and he steps back away from the tear in reality, not wanting to get pushed in or attacked with no choice but to jump into the rift. There are far too many webs on the walls for him to feel comfortable in the basement of the house at Hilltop Road.

“But I bet you didn’t mean to.” He says, beginning to walk back towards the stairs. There is no response as she lurks in the corners of the basement, still clearly angry at him. “Hm. So I’m right.”

“You cannot stop the Mother of Puppets. There are forces at work _far_ beyond your comprehension.” As he reaches the first step, the scuttling sound behind him gets suddenly louder, more threatening, and he has to stop himself from turning tail and running, out into the light, away from Hilltop Road and this basement full of webs and secrets and away from the rift that sits and murmurs indistinctly. “You don’t even have a Patron to protect you.” Pausing, Martin takes a deep breath before he turns around to see the basement, somehow unchanged behind him. He does not look up. That would be a mistake.

“ _Nobody_ understands them. Not even Jon.” Martin replies firmly, with a calmness he does not feel. His emotions are warring within him – anger and fear, creeping dread and loneliness and determination. The mist retreats, growing thinner and more transparent in the cold sunlight that streams down into the basement from behind him, silhouetting him with a pale golden halo of light.

“Your _Archivist_ knows the Dread Powers better than most.” Amusement tinges the edges of her words, an implicit threat that Martin cannot allow, cannot even tolerate.

“Stay away from him.” He grips Jon’s cane a little tighter, as if by holding it securely he can keep Jon safe from everything around him, from the Entities, from Annabelle and Jonah and Peter and Daisy.

“Are you going to _stop_ me?” Now she is almost laughing, walking forwards out of the shadows once more.

“Yes.” Martin does not move from the first step, either to retreat or advance. The mist is entirely gone now, leaving Martin more solid than he has been in months as he confronts her. “Yes, I will. If you even send a single spider to spy on him then I will stop you and _all_ your little friends, and you won’t _ever_ see me coming.” Her laugh is a little unsure, somewhat hesitant as she looks at him standing there, angry and determined and unafraid.

“You’re not as strong as you think you are.” Bravado, Martin thinks, as he turns away once again, walking up the steps towards the sunlight. He deliberately does not look back.

“Neither are you.” He replies, and Annabelle Cane does not try to respond as he emerges once more into the sunlight, squinting at the sudden glare. For a moment, Martin just stands there, holding the polished mahogany cane in his hands and thinking about Jon and all that he wishes he could say to him. Then he squares his shoulders and begins to walk back towards the train station. He has work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like my chapter titles are becoming increasingly tenuous 
> 
> Anyways, I am back! and with a new Martin chapter. Please do leave thoughts and theories down below, it's very interesting to hear what all of you are thinking (also, thank you to everyone who has read this far I am in shock)
> 
> \- Jay


	11. An Eye for an Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for character death (sort of)

When they find Tim, something is terribly wrong. The creeping feeling of dread that has been building over the hours they have spent searching for him reaches a climax, alarm bells sounding in Jon’s head as he spots Tim, scrolling through his phone with his back to them as he stands outside the café. At first, he can’t tell what is wrong about him – whether his posture is slightly off, or if he is holding his phone in an unfamiliar way, but then he turns around and Jon has to stop himself from crying out in grief and fear.

His eyes are green. They should be brown – Jon Knows the exact shade they should be, can remember it clearly, can See the way they looked when he died, full of hatred and bitter satisfaction. The eyes that focus on him now are not Tim’s eyes. They are intense and cold and Jon Knows with a dreadful certainty exactly what happened while they were looking for him. What he allowed to happen by leaving, by running away. The Eye gives him the Knowledge freely, lets him see how much it hurt as Jonah used Elias Bouchard’s body to gouge out and replace Tim’s eyes. The pain is almost overwhelming, screams building like static in his ears as he drinks in the Knowledge that he does not want. He can See Elias now, dying so very slowly as he sits slumped in despair, against one of the walls of the Panopticon.

“Not Tim. It’s not Tim.” Jon whispers, over and over again, frozen in panic as he stares into those too-green eyes. The stranger looks at him in confusion, speaking in a low whisper so that Jonah cannot hear her.

“What’s wrong with his eyes?” Unable to tear his gaze away from Jonah, Jon feels something warm and wet running down his face – blood or ink or tears, he cannot tell. Trembling with fear, he takes a stumbling half-step backwards, as if trying to run. There is nowhere to run to though, Jon Knows this. Nowhere that he can hide which will undo what Jonah has done to Tim Stoker.

“It’s _him_. He’s not Tim. He’s – he’s not Tim.” That is all he can say, the words tumbling out almost without him. “Not Tim. It’s – god, it’s not Tim.”

“Oh – oh _God._ ” She looks like she might cry. Jon thinks he could be crying already, leaning on the stranger – on Sasha – far more than he is comfortable with.

“Hey guys!” As he gets closer, the smile that was never Tim’s falters. He looks between the two of them, and something that Jon recognises as Jonah’s satisfaction and curiosity shows on his face – an alien expression, when made with Tim’s features. Jon makes a small choked noise of fear and grief, stepping backwards automatically. “What’s the plan then?”

“I’m going back to the institute.” Jon says quickly, before the stranger beside him can reply. He is surprised at how steady his voice sounds, no trace of fear as he stares down Jonah Magnus.

“I thought –” Trailing off, the stranger frowns at Jon.

“Change of plans.” He replies, voice tight with fear as he watches Jonah in Tim’s body, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I need to look at a statement.” The sudden interest in Jonah’s eyes terrifies him.

“The von Closen statement?” Flinching, Jon thinks of how Albrecht died, of the eyes inside him, and wonders if he will go like that – if the Eye gave them as a curse or blessing.

“N-no.” The words come unbidden, torn from his throat by something he can’t name. “The statement of Hazel Rutter.” Again, Jon struggles, wanting to keep the words back but finding himself unable to do so. “Regarding a fire in her childhood home.” A voice that is not his own whispers in his head – _Hello Jon. Apologies for the deception._ He can’t stop it, the sinister, unhurried words that sound like Jonah did when he was Elias. All he can think of to do is to think desperately about where Martin is, about the impossibility of his memories. Something tears within him, and he doubles over in pain, the voice silenced as he chokes back a cry. He is very sure that he does not want to read that statement ever again – but he is equally sure that he has to read it so he can find Martin.

“Don’t think I’ve Seen that one before.” Shaking with fear, Jon can’t bring himself to look at Tim – at Jonah – again. Instead, he looks at the stranger stood next to him, sees her fear and her pain at seeing this person that is not Tim piloting his body.

“I’m going home.” She says in a faint voice. Jonah looks amused for a moment – Jon catches the expression out of the corner of his eye and hates him for it, hates him for taking Tim, hates him for everything he has ever done or will do. “Stay safe, boys.” The term of endearment cuts deep, reminding Jon of peaceful times in research. They had been happy then – or so he had thought. Now he wonders if any of them have ever been really been happy. He nods gravely, forces himself to stand upright and place a hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll keep Tim safe, don’t worry.” Jon replies quietly. There is something like gratitude in her eyes.

“See you tomorrow then?”

“Probably not.” She doesn’t reply, just gives him a pitying, pleading look before hurrying away. Jon tries not to think about how – if all goes to plan – this will be the last time he sees her. The memory of what she looks like slips away like sand even as he struggles to retain it, and all too soon, he is alone with Jonah. Helpless.

“Right then.” Smiling, Jonah turns to Jon. It is not Tim’s smile – it does not pretend to be. For a moment, Jon wonders if Jonah can tell that he knows what has happened. A chill fear crawls up his spine as he meets his gaze. “Let’s go find that statement.”

It is worse in the Archives. There is nothing he can pretend to be distracted by there, only the statements, whispering about Knowledge and Fear so sweetly, trying to entice him to read them. Jon is tired – exhausted by using the power of the Beholding without feeding it – but he ignores their whispering, turns his back on the stacks and shelves and steels himself to keep going. No more statements, he thinks firmly. After all, he only has to stay strong for a few more hours.

“Jon?” Tim’s hand on his shoulder, and he flinches away from it. “You look terrible.” It’s all wrong – a parody of Tim’s mannerisms, of his expressions, his posture. Jon steps away from him, recoils in fear, stumbling toward the sanctuary of his office. Once again, he wishes he could at least have his cane with him. As he looks back over his shoulder, he sees Jonah smile, that same cold, self-satisfied smile that he remembers so well from the man he thought was Elias Bouchard.

“I’m going to have a lie down.” He mumbles, stopping himself from falling by leaning on a desk for a moment. It is the desk that should belong to Martin. Now, it is piled high with boxes of follow-up research and statements to be sorted. Jonah makes no move to help him, just watching as Jon struggles across the open space between Martin’s desk and his office before stumbling inside and closing the door behind him. His office is quiet and musty and almost feels like home as he slides down the door until he is sat against it, gasping for breath. Shrugging off his coat takes more effort than it should, even in such an awkward position. Jon’s hands leave smears of blood and ink on everything he touches. His coat is covered in dark stains. Even Martin’s jumper is ruined, which Jon feels incredibly guilty for. He remembers Martin giving it to him – a storm whistling through the cracks in the walls, and Jon shivering violently without any warm clothes. And now it is marred with ink and blood from his fresh marks, smaller stains where worm scars used to be, and one patch of darkness that covers almost an entire side. That, he knows, is from where Michael marked him. It feels like a lifetime ago. Entirely at odds with the fresh wound pulling open with every breath beneath Martin’s jumper.

Jon is distracted by a surge of power from the other side of the door. The Eye sings with exultant joy. He Knows without asking that Jonah is Looking for the statement – and he Knows what Jonah has discovered. Hazel Rutter does not exist. She has never given a statement to the Magnus Archives, and Jon knows in his heart of hearts that she never will. A slow smile spreads across Tim’s face. Jonah’s smile. As he Sees it, Jon feels sick to his stomach, terror filling up his lungs and swimming in his veins. Somehow, he Knows that Jonah has figured out what the statement is. That thought alone is far worse than the pain clouding the edges of his mind as he sits on the floor of his office.

“Martin.” Jon whispers, pleading with the universe, with the Entities, with anyone or anything who might be listening. “Please – _please_.” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for anymore – to see him again, for him to be safe, for him to be happy, for a future with Martin where they can grow old together. A small, selfish part of him wants Martin to be searching desperately for him. Jon stands up with some difficulty, wincing as each movement reopens different wounds. Leaving his coat crumpled on the floor, Jon opens the door again and manoeuvres out of his office. He manages to avoid leaving anymore inky, bloody handprints on Martin’s desk as he leans on it, breathing heavily. Jonah has left already – Jon can See him making his way back to Elias’s office, his gait far too regular for Tim’s body. The tears are returning, rolling down his cheeks silently in irregular paths that wind between his marks, washing away the ink and blood and dirt in their wake. He grips the smooth wood of Martin’s desk harder, holding himself upright, holding himself together. So much has been lost, and now, when he had just dared to hope that he could save Tim this time, Jon has failed him again. He remembers too clearly the bitter hatred that Tim had felt towards him. Hatred that he knows in his heart was justified. Is still justified. After all, he thinks with a bitter smile, he is a monster. The Eye’s own personal monster. The Archivist. But, Jon reminds himself firmly, he will not be so for much longer. No more statements, no more Compelling, no more Jonah and no more Jon. He is afraid. Afraid to die, but far more afraid to fail.

From Sasha’s desk, Jon takes a pen and a sheet of paper, hesitating as he smooths it out with shaking and stained hands. The letter he writes is short and to the point. By the time she reads it, Jonah will be dead, and so will he. Tim should survive, but if he still has Jonah’s eyes, she will need to remove them herself. He folds it and tucks it into one of her desk drawers, hopefully out of sight from Jonah for long enough that he can kill him in the Panopticon. Jon feels a stab of sharp satisfaction at the idea as he stands upright again, ignoring the much more real stab of pain as he tears something open again. He almost manages to walk to the door without stumbling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok first off I'm sorry
> 
> I am well aware that this is War Crimes and should not be allowed. Unfortunately I am a fan of angst, and this was very fun to write.
> 
> Do feel free to yell at me in the comments.
> 
> \- Jay


	12. Exterminator

Jane Prentiss dies in a basement, lunging for Martin as he empties two fire extinguishers directly at her and a third over the worms crawling away. He has been hunting her for weeks, tracking down reports of strange worms all over London until they lead him to the basement where he was first attacked by her. It almost feels appropriate, for Martin to kill her there, where all of this began. Standing there, looking down the pitted mess of flesh that used to be a human, he doesn’t feel the satisfaction he expects, just a numb acceptance, a cold heaviness in his limbs. This is how things are now. He kills monsters and tries not to think too hard about his own humanity with each new body he buries. As the last of the worms goes still, twitching its last on the cold concrete, Martin feels something go out of him, an energy that drains away and leaves him feeling cold and empty. He is tired, suddenly, as he drops the fire extinguishers on the steps and grabs a broom to sweep the worms into a pile with Jane Prentiss’s body for easier burning. After that, there is the gasoline trail up to the window as he squeezes through, and then Martin throws a lit match back through and runs as it ignites, the blaze spreading through the basement far faster than is natural. The smell follows him as he races away through the night, an acrid sourness that clings to his clothes and makes him feel faintly sick.

The London streets at three in the morning are not deserted, but they are quiet, apart from a few late-night revellers making their winding way home, and cold, particularly in the spring. It is not the right weather for mist or fog, but it follows him regardless, haunting his steps. Martin ignores it, alternatively running and speed walking as he flees from the basement and the dead things that burn within it. Once he’s far enough from the burning basement, Martin slows down and tries to act natural as he looks for landmarks that can point to where he has ended up. It isn’t long before he spots what he’s looking for – a dark stone building, squat and sinister, huddled in between tall office buildings. There is a blue plaque on the side, but it is too burnt to be legible. That doesn’t matter to Martin, who doesn’t need a label to identify the work of Robert Smirke. Besides, he’s visited this particular entrance before, and knows it well. Tightening the straps on his backpack as he ducks into a side street, Martin smiles to himself. The street is dark and narrow, with high railings on one side enclosing what had once been a churchyard. It is over these that Martin climbs, hauling himself over with practiced ease and dropping down on the other side silently. He treads carefully, tracing a path between headstones that jut out of the ground like greyed and broken teeth and patches of knotted, thorny bramble that seem to reach out and snag his clothes with malicious intent. Considering the architect of this place, Martin wouldn’t put it past them. The grass is long since dead, withered and scorched by a distant summer, but there is none of the usual detritus here – no cans or plastic bags scattered on the ground. It is a desolated, lonely patch of dirt tucked out of the way where no-one can find it.

In one corner of the tangle of graves and thorns, there is a trapdoor. A circle of iron, half rusted and heavy as Martin opens it with a squeal of ancient hinges. The ladder disappears into deep darkness, and Martin takes a moment before descending to take off his backpack and take out a tape recorder. The tunnels, watched over and protected by the Eye, are not friendly places, but they love Jon, hail him as the Archivist, and by reminding them about him, Martin can ensure himself a slightly safer passage – or at least one that is more predictable in its terror. He turns on the recorder, tucks it into a pocket where it will not be broken or damaged, and begins to climb down. As he reaches the bottom of the ladder, the trapdoor groans and falls closed with a loud bang that echoes all around him, emphasising the expectant silence in the echo’s wake. Taking a deep breath, Martin turns his torch on and begins to walk into it. The fear grows in that quiet darkness, as the tunnels do their best to keep him out, to make him run rather than risk him getting too close to the Panopticon at their centre. Martin wonders if they know he wants to kill Jonah Magnus.

“Hello, Jon. Me again.” The darkness is already less oppressive, his torch shining brighter with every word as he makes his way towards the centre of the tunnels, those under the Institute itself. He checks his watch, seeing that it has passed midnight since he killed Jane Prentiss. “It’s – it’s the first of March, twenty-sixteen, in case you find these and you’re trying to piece everything together without – without me. In which case – sorry.” Martin takes a deep breath, shakes his head and continues. “No, ignore that. I’m not going to just _die_ before you get here – before we get to kill Jonah. I do hope you get to listen to these though. You used to listen to all of them.” The fondness in his voice is unmistakable as he recalls those times, before Jon had died. They’d all been scared, and Tim had got angry, and Jon had got paranoid, but they’d all been together – even the thing that had replaced Sasha had done a good enough job pretending to be her that none of them had noticed anything was off. Sometimes, Martin wonders if he would have preferred not to know about that, if it would have been better to live in ignorance forever, without the guilt of knowing the thing that had murdered their friend had gone unnoticed in their midst for so long. “I – I killed Prentiss today. She’s the last of the flesh hives – Hodges was last week – so it should be at least harder for Jonah to get you near the Corruption.” The gentle hum of the tape recorder is almost comforting in the silence as Martin continues onwards. “Still no sign of _Jurgen Leitner_. I _know_ he’s down here, but he’s hiding from me.” He mutters something about cowards under his breath, turning left into a corridor that is less darkened, but appears to go on forever. Every time Martin walks down it, he weighs up the benefits of finding and killing Simon Fairchild. And every time, he reluctantly concludes that it would probably more effort that it’s really worth, and finding him would take him too far from London and the Institute. “So now I wait. The web table hasn’t arrived yet – I’ve got a while to go before that. Probably seal it in concrete and drop it in the Thames. Even if the Not-Them can’t drown, there isn’t anyone they can replace down there.” Pausing, Martin smiles as if imagining a response. “ _Yes_ , I’ll be careful. I always am.” He closes his eyes and steps backwards into a tunnel that shouldn’t exist. This one was once painted, stone walls still stained with bright colours. Once, Martin would have been disturbed by the fact that the red is more vibrant than any other colour, splashed haphazardly across the stone like sprays of arterial blood. Now, however, he ignores it except to note the shapes that act as markers for where to turn. “Jonah still doesn’t know I’m down here. I’ve got a theory about that, actually. When you arrive I can ask you.” Another brief hesitation, and then Martin stops, looking down at the tape recorder. “I hope I’m still here when you arrive. I know – I know you’ll find me. I’m not worried about that.” The whirring of the tape recorder changes slightly in tone, and Martin glares at it. “I’m _not._ ” Sighing, he starts walking again. “It’s just that. – look, I’m not _stupid_. I know what I’m doing is dangerous. It’s a fine line between hunting these things and _Hunting_ them, capital H. And – and I’m still lonely, still watching – and it’s not like Annabelle was _wrong_ about the whole spider thing.” The next hall is his own, and Martin pulls off his coat and backpack, hanging them up on the bars of a cell. Martin laughs, not entirely bitterly. “I’m just killing time. Time and monsters.”

He doesn’t turn the recorder off, just balances it in an ancient sink and goes about the business of making himself a cup of tea. First the fire, then the mug balanced over it with water poured in carefully from a canister, and then a faintly dusty teabag chosen from his collection. More accurately, it is Jonah’s collection, stolen the last time he had snuck into the Institute to check on this Jon and take what supplies he needed – or wanted, in some cases. Such as the tea, and a set of expensive looking pens.

“I wonder how old this stuff actually is.” He mutters, leaving the tea to brew for a few minutes as he sits next to the tape recorder and pretends Jon is there with him. “Probably a hundred years _at least_.” In the silence, Martin considers that Jon probably could tell him the exact year it was bought – and how the seller had been brutally murdered by a clown three years later. “Funny, the things you miss.” Martin says quietly. The mist around him smells of old tea. Eventually, he stands up and takes his teabag out and drops it onto a plate, then stirs in milk and sugar and sits back down to drink it. “Like that wobbly chair – the one I had to carry home in the snow. And yes, it was snow. Just because it didn’t stick doesn’t mean it wasn’t snow.” Taking a sip of tea, Martin smiles. “Anyway, I miss that chair. It was nice – and I know the entire history of the tree it was made from.” He pauses, glancing at the tape recorder again. “I miss you.” Martin has, in fact, written several pages of poetry on this particular subject in the months since Gertrude’s death and his disappearance into the tunnels, along with a lot of poems about what it means to be human. Sometimes, he reads them to the tape recorder, talks to a Jon who is not there about what they mean. Sometimes he writes them just to write, and then burns the paper for warmth. “Maybe – after all this, maybe we can give running away together another shot. Somewhere warmer this time.” Sipping his tea again, Martin briefly pictures Jon, in his jumper and cardigans and smart shirts, sitting at the beach with an ice cream and a wide brimmed straw hat to keep off the sun. He chuckles to himself, and then reaches over to the tape recorder. “I guess that’s it from me today. Love you.” Martin freezes, finger on the button as he realises what he has just said. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do, don’t I? I love you.” Smiling broadly, he puts his half-full mug down next to him. “That’s nice to say. I love you, Jon.” His smile gets wider, and Martin feels a warm glow inside as he lets that knowledge sink in. For several minutes, he just sits there with the quietly humming tape recorder, smiling into the half-light and sipping on his tea. Checking his watch again, he sighs. If he wants to raid the Institute kitchens for breakfast, he will need to go now, or else risk running into this time’s Jon. Martin stands up, stretching. “I really do have to go now. Talk to you later. And – and I love you.” He turns off the tape recorder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how do I write? easy, just fuck up your sleep schedule and pretend you're a functioning human being while you stay up too late putting words into a document.
> 
> or sell your soul to an eldritch horror. idk. let me know what you thought of this chapter pls, loving the reactions so far
> 
> \- Jay


	13. Familiar faces

Tim is sat in Elias’s office, writing. At least, Jonah is doing so in Tim’s body. Watching through the Eye, Jon hides in a storage cupboard and tries to figure out a way to make him leave. He needs to get into that office, into the first drawer on the left of Elias’s desk, so that he can take his gun. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look as though he is going to be moving any time soon – not without interruption, anyway. And so, slowly opening the cupboard door and climbing out, Jon decides to provide that interruption. His lighter is still in his coat pocket, down in the Archives, and he makes his way back down slowly and painfully, feeling his way along the walls for support. Every step hurts. He moves slowly, making sure nobody sees him as he limps down the stairs. Once in his office, he manages to pick up his coat and fish the lighter out of the pocket. It is harder to flick it on, and Jon can’t bring himself to touch it to a statement. He has to drop it and stumble back as the carpet ignites, his lungs filling with smoke too quickly. Somehow, he manages to make it up the steps and around a corner before Tim emerges from Elias’s office – not Tim, Jon thinks desperately. He is not Tim anymore. Jon doesn’t bother waiting until Jonah’s footsteps have faded before he drags himself back into the main corridor, almost falling through the office door as he feels his skin heating up, burning without a flame. He hopes that Jonah will manage to put the fire out as he leans over his desk, coughing up smoke that does not exist. His hands shake so badly that he doesn’t notice he has picked up the half-written statement until he has already started reading it.

“Statement of Hazel Rutter regarding a fire in her childhood home. Original statement given August 9th, 1992. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, The Archivist. Statement begins.” Again, Jon can think of nothing else to do but try desperately to Know about Martin, as his mouth forms words without him. “Hello, Jon. Apologies –” A coughing fit interrupts him, and Jon flings the statement as far away from him as he can, doubling over in pain and tasting blood and ink in his mouth. He can’t tell whether it is the Eye’s response to his searching for impossible Knowledge or the fire in the Archives that has caused this coughing fit, but either way he is desperately grateful for it. Fumbling at the drawers, he manages to wrench the first one open, grabbing Jonah’s gun – the gun he murdered Gertrude with – and launching himself towards the door as fast as he can. He collapses halfway and has to drag himself, managing to prop himself up to a half crouching position where he can stumble along, leaning on the walls. Now the flames feel hotter, and it is all Jon can do to make it to the storage cupboard and close the door behind him. His hand scorches the wood of the door.

Jon doesn’t know how long he sits there, gasping for air as he clutches Jonah’s gun tightly. Eventually, the burning fades, the smoke dissipates from his lungs, and he is once more able to move. Even then, he doesn’t, hugging his knees as he tries to gather the strength to stand. It takes several attempts to kick open the door. Jon checks the gun, hearing Basira’s voice in his head as he makes sure it is loaded and that the safety is on, and then stands up. He stumbles down the stairs and back into the Archives, shoving the door open with his shoulder and falling to the floor again. For several long minutes, he sits there and gasps for air, his eyes drifting closed. Jon needs to read a statement. The exhaustion weighs him down, heavier with every forced usage of his powers. Feed your god, whispers a voice in his head that is not his own. Feed it or it will feed on you. He pushes himself to his feet and limps to the trapdoor, pulling the rug back to reveal that it is already unlocked. Jon doesn’t have the energy to be worried about this as he pulls it open one handed and descends, step by painful step, into the darkness. Standing in the tunnels, he feels the pull of the Panopticon, of the Eye beckoning him to the centre. It is a call he does not want to answer. A call he is afraid to answer. Taking a deep breath, Jon Looks for Jurgen Leitner. More accurately, he looks for the bit of the tunnels that is slightly too loud about its lack of Jurgen Leitner. He walks toward it, feeling his way along the walls for support as he holds the gun out in front of him. The tunnels and catacombs are long and winding, some so tight he can barely squeeze through. Still he continues, chasing that blind spot as Leitner moves through the tunnels. Jon moves slowly, awkwardly, all that is holding him upright starting to fail and tear under the strain of keeping conscious and keeping moving. Even so, he manages to gain on him, step by step, minute by minute, until he rounds a particularly cramped corner to find Jurgen Leitner stood in front of him, slowly raising his hands.

“You’re going to kill Jonah Magnus for me.” Jon croaks, leaning on the wall as he coughs up ink. Still pointing the gun at Leitner, he doubles over for a moment before pushing himself up to something like an upright position. “Now, drop the book.” There is no trace of surprise in Jurgen Leitner’s expression as he backs up slightly, regarding Jon instead with mild curiosity, and though he is something slightly unexpected, but not unprepared for.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. It’s all that’s protecting me down here.” Sighing, Jon tries to ignore the screaming pain in his leg and to find the exact words that will convince Leitner to drop his book. The right piece of knowledge – he flinches despite himself, wondering how close he is getting to becoming like Jonah. A monster, wielding knowledge like a weapon. He Knows the Eye is pleased with that idea.

“He will find you. On the sixteenth of February, next year, he will find you _despite_ that book.” Eyes begin to open on his hands, up his arms, on every mark that the Eye has recreated. It is hungry for Leitner’s terror.

“You don’t Know that.” Jon Looks up at him, feeling a little strength returning to him as he feeds on the small amount of fear Leitner feels. “You _can’t_ Know that.” He repeats, more firmly this time as Jon props himself up a little more securely, only to slide further down the wall, leaving a smear of mingled ink and blood behind him.

“I’m the Archivist.” Usually this explains away any questions he is asked, but Leitner only shakes his head, frowning harder at Jon.

“ _No one_ can See the future. _It’s not possible_.” He replies, still holding onto that book as he lowers his hands.

“I was there. Or – I will be there.” Feeling more exhausted than ever, Jon takes a surreptitious step closer to the wall, so he can lean more heavily against it. The corkscrew scar in his leg – or, more accurately, the eye where it should be – has started to bleed heavily again, and he’s almost gone numb from blood loss around the eye where his Spiral mark used to be. He wonders why the Eye is still keeping him alive – whether it is all for the sake of reading that half-written statement in Elias’s office.

“Hm. Well, that changes things.” Leitner says, sounding slightly interested. He puts the book in his pocket, which Jon doesn’t have the energy to argue about. “There’s a safe place within the tunnels. We can talk about killing Magnus there.” Perhaps, Jon thinks, he should ask more questions about this safe place, about the journey there – about anything. Instead, he shrugs.

“Lead the way.” Gesturing with the gun, Jon pushes himself upright again. The eyes begin to close once more, one by one, losing none of the pain and fear they have inflicted as they retreat back into his skin. Leitner watches this process with interest before Jon waves the gun at him with shaking hands, and he turns and begins to lead Jon through the tunnels. They walk for what could be minutes or hours, through tunnels that are too long, oppressively dark and don’t make sense, until Leitner leads him around a corner into a corridor that almost shows signs of life. There is mist swirling on the floor here, and in the highest corners, spiders sit in webs and watch him silently. He tries his best to ignore them. Jon gestures for Leitner to keep going, and so they walk down the line of cells to the very last, from which the sound of water gently boiling can be heard, where Leitner stops, waiting for Jon to go first. He takes a deep breath and turns to the open cell door.

And then Jon sees Martin, and everything else falls away. There is no pain, no fear, nothing but Martin, standing up as he sees him, and the pure joy he feels. His gun – Jonah’s gun – clatters to the floor as he pushes past Leitner and throws himself into Martin’s arms.

“Jon!” Martin cries, hugging him and holding him upright as Jon’s strength fails him. “Jon, it’s alright. It’s me. I’m here.” Fingers twisting into the soft fabric of Martin’s jumper, Jon realises he is crying with relief, desperately repeating apologies.

“I’m sorry. I’m so – I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to leave.” They cling to each other, Martin combing his fingers comfortingly through Jon’s hair.

“Oh – oh Jon, no. No, you didn’t – it’s fine.” For one horrible moment, Jon thinks that he might have made a mistake, that Martin might not have wanted to be found, and he freezes. Martin holds him close, presses a kiss against his forehead. “Jon – Jon, listen to me. You didn’t leave. _I_ didn’t leave.” Almost melting at the small show of affection, Jon collapses a little further against Martin.

“Then – I – Martin, I don’t understand.” He doesn’t move to look up, voice slightly muffled as he hugs Martin like he might never see him again.

“Don’t worry. I’ll tell you everything.” Mumbling something, Jon pulls back slightly. “Jon? Look at me. I promise I’ll tell you everything. Just not while _he’s_ listening.” Gently wiping some of the ink and blood from Jon’s face, Martin kisses his forehead again. This time, Jon smiles.

“Who – oh. _Him_.” Looking with derision over his shoulder at Leitner, Jon manages to sit up a little, kissing Martin on the cheek in return. “I’d almost forgotten.”

“And here I thought you wanted me to kill Jonah Magnus.” Picking up the gun from the floor, Leitner examines it for a moment before passing it to Martin. Jon flinches, avoids looking at Martin. He doesn’t Know what Martin is thinking, what fear or dread he is feeling. Even so, he can guess at the questions Martin will want to ask. Those he will be asking.

Jon doesn’t want to die. Even more so now that Martin is back. But he knows Jonah Magnus has to be killed, and he knows that if there is an Archivist living while that happens, then he will Watch everyone who works for the Magnus Institute dying. Including Sasha, including Rosie – including Tim, if he’s still conscious or alive. His eyes drift closed as Martin replies to Jurgen Leitner, his voice sounding far off and indistinct. Jon is exhausted. All of his energy was being directed to the single purpose of killing Jonah Magnus, with no expectation to live beyond this day. Since he arrived in this time, he has been burning resources he doesn’t have, and now, feeling safe for the first time in a long time, Jon simply shuts down. He is asleep almost before he realises just how tired he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back LGBTQIAP+ community
> 
> Hope I'm now making up for the Horrible Crimes I have committed to get to this point. Uphill from here, I promise
> 
> probably.
> 
> unless I'm lying.
> 
> \- Jay


	14. Many Plans

Martin is afraid. Laid down next to him, Jon is having a nightmare. He can see it in the tension, in the way Jon curls up, shoulders shaking. And Martin wants to reach out and comfort him, but he’s afraid. Afraid that if he tries, he’ll find that he’s become insubstantial again, that his hand will pass through Jon like mist and leave him cold and even more afraid. Since Leitner left to scrounge for supplies in the institute, not long after Jon had passed out, Martin has been lying like this, frozen in place as he watches over Jon and wills himself to believe that this miracle is real

“Jon?” He says quietly, and Jon rolls over to face him. His eyes are open wide, unfocussed and staring. Martin knows what to do when Jon is having nightmares like this, but he still can’t bring himself to reach out. “ _Jon_.” Hand hovering over his shoulder, Martin tries to force himself to touch Jon, to comfort him. Before he can, Jon blinks, eyes focussing and half closing as he snuggles closer to Martin, pressing his head against Martin’s shoulder as he puts his arms around him. Martin freezes, breathing slowly and carefully as he hugs Jon. He feels more solid with Jon’s weight in his arms, more alive.

“You got here before me.” Jon whispers, so quietly Martin can barely hear him. “Was it – I – I’d like to –” Pausing, he takes a deep breath. “The compelling – I can’t control it anymore. I’m trying to not _ask_ , but it’s difficult. The right words to make myself understood without – without drawing on the Eye.” For several moments, Martin doesn’t reply, simply running his fingers through Jon’s hair and thinking about how he should have tied it up before going to bed. Although, he muses, no one really knew Jon was going to fall asleep when he did.

“I arrived on this side of the rift on the fourth of December, twenty fourteen.” Eventually, Martin replies, still hugging Jon close to him, afraid to turn into mist again.

“Oh _Martin._ I’m – I’m sorry.” Looking up at him, Jon sounds heartbroken, pointlessly guilty in the way that makes Martin most want to hug him tight and tell him to be kind to himself.

“Not your fault.” He says firmly, cupping Jon’s face with one hand as he wipes away a stray tear.

“Were you – were you Lonely?” The fact that Martin is able to hesitate is a good sign. That he feels the need to do so before answering is not.

“I’ve been hunting monsters.” Jon flinches, almost unnoticeably, but enough that Martin tries to explain immediately. “Not – not _Hunting_. Just – stopping them. Like Jane Prentiss, and Timothy Hodges. And that taxidermy shop – burnt it down about a month back.” Still, Jon doesn’t meet his eyes, looking determinedly at the faded design on Martin’s t-shirt.

“You didn’t kill Jonah.” He says in a small voice, as Martin tries to figure out what has upset him.

“I was waiting for you.” Briefly hugging him tighter, Jon does not look up or try to speak. “Besides, everyone’s still working at the Institute – I didn’t even manage to convince _you_ to quit when I got here.” Somehow, Jon has got closer again, resting his head on Martin’s chest with his eyes closed.

“I think – I think I know how to kill him without killing them.” At first, Martin doesn’t notice the pain and tired acceptance in Jon’s voice – he’s just grateful he’s said something.

“How?” Jon doesn’t reply, the silence heavy. Fear crawls up Martin’s spine. “No.” He says. “No, we’re not doing – _no_ , Jon.” All at once he remembers the gun currently lying a few meters from them and feels sick at the thought of what Jon was planning to do with it. “I took us to Hilltop Road to save your life, I’m _not_ letting you die now.” Shaking with fear or anger, Martin kisses Jon on the top of his head.

“Martin.” He says.

“Find another plan. I’m not killing you.”

“ _Martin._ ” Reaching up to touch Martin’s face, Jon looks so upset it is difficult to do anything but hold him closer in a desperate attempt to keep him safe.

“Jon.” Martin whispers, brushing some of the hair from his face.

“I don’t remember going to Hilltop Road.” He smiles wryly, tired eyes scanning Martin’s face.

“Oh.” With one hand still cupping Jon’s face, Martin kisses him on the forehead. It’s almost an apology.

“There was the statement – I can still _hear it_ trying to begin in my head – but past that, I can’t remember anything until I was out on the pavement of Hilltop Road. Alone.” The word still sends a chill down Martin’s spine, still makes mist swirl in his lungs. He forces it back, collects his thoughts. Not Lonely anymore, he reminds himself. Especially not now Jon has arrived.

“Right. Well – the statement was a trap.” Taking a deep breath, Martin makes himself keep talking. “Jonah wrote it, and Gertrude and I were fairly certain he was trying to use you for a Ritual.”

“Oh god.” Jon whispers in something like horrified awe, closing his eyes.

“We thought – _Gertrude_ thought that the individual Rituals don’t work. That Jonah was planning something to bring them all through, with the Eye on top.” For one terrible moment, Martin can’t tell if he’s controlling his own words anymore, and he wonders if this is how Jon feels when reading statements. When reading that particular statement.

“Oh – oh _god._ ” Crying into Martin’s t-shirt, Jon chokes back sobs of fear. “I thought – I _knew_ it was bad, but – Martin, he Knows. He’s writing it again.” He hugs him tighter, more securely as he tries not to give into the creeping dread that knowledge gives him.

“So, we’re on a deadline. Fine. We’ll figure something out.” As Jon continues to cry quietly, Martin keeps his tone firm and steady. “I promise, Jon. We’ll find a way where nobody else has to die.”

“He’s got Tim.” And just like that, Martin’s heart sinks, cold and full of fear. He is shaking his head, pressing kisses against Jon’s head as they both cry quietly in the darkness. “Jonah – Jonah took him and _tore out his eyes_.”

“Jon.” Martin says, sounding scared and full of grief.

“He trusted Elias. As he told Tim that I had broken into the Archives, that I had taken Sasha into the tunnels, he _believed_ Elias. Never even doubted him for a second.” It’s too much to imagine the pain and fear, to know how Tim had felt in his last moments. Martin tries to cover his ears, backing away.

“Jon, I _don’t want to hear this_.” He pleads.

“Tim only stopped trusting him when it was _far_ too late – when he woke up with his eyes gone and Elias placing another pair in his hands.” For a moment, Jon doesn’t sound like himself, static buzzing, almost gleeful at the pain and fear he is speaking of.

“ _Jon._ ” All at once the static dies, leaving Jon looking horrified as he sees the anguish on Martin’s face.

“I’m so – I’m so sorry, Martin.” Jon reaches out to him, hesitating as if he doesn’t believe he should be allowed to. “I shouldn’t – I couldn’t – Martin, I’m _sorry_.” Finally, Martin sits up, gathering Jon into his arms and holding him steady through the panicked, choking breaths.

“Hey – hey, it’s alright. It’s alright.” He says, and it isn’t even a lie, really. Nothing is alright, but he’s not going to be upset at Jon for something he couldn’t stop.

“No, it’s _not,_ because I don’t even know if I was human before, and now –”

“You’re going to be fine. We’re going to be _happy_.” Interrupting him, Martin tries not to think of the alternative – of the gun a few meters away.

“I don’t think I’m someone you can save anymore, Martin.” Jon says quietly. “I’m not – I’m not like Melanie, or Sasha, or – or even Tim. I’m just something you need to stop.” Suddenly, Martin realises what it had been about him hunting monsters that had upset Jon.

“You’re not a monster, Jon.” He insists, brushing hair out of his face carefully. By the way Jon looks away, he knows he’s got to the heart of it.

“Aren’t I?” Hands trembling slightly against Martin’s back, Jon glances back up at him. “Martin, I can’t stop myself anymore.” The creeping dread seizes at Martin’s lungs, and he closes his eyes, refusing to think about it in any depth. Somewhere in the back of his head, Gertrude tells him what he needs to do.

“Don’t ask me to kill you.” Martin pleads, their foreheads touching as he leans gently against Jon. It is far too long before Jon replies. Another thing he resolves to not think too hard about now, when he has just got Jon back.

“I’m sorry.” Speaking in a very small voice, Jon leans against Martin like he’s all that it is keeping him upright. His jumper, Martin realises, is stained with something dark that is, in all likelihood, blood – and probably Jon’s blood, he thinks with a rush of fear.

“Let’s just – let’s get you patched up.” He stands up, taking care to ensure that Jon doesn’t immediately collapse as he does so. “I’ve got a first aid kit somewhere here, and you can tell me what happened.” Gently releasing him, Martin takes a cautious step back and then quickly crosses the cell to his first aid kit, dousing a soft flannel in disinfectant as he takes three steps back to Jon, kneeling down in front of the cot as Jon awkwardly pulls his jumper – one of the many Martin originally leant him under some pretence – over his head, dropping it unceremoniously on the cot next to him.

“The Eye saw fit to mark me.” That is, Martin thinks, certainly one way to describe the bloody holes scattered haphazardly across Jon’s skin, the twisting, undulating slices that are revealed where his burn scars should be as Martin tries to wipe the blood away. He takes Jon’s hand and uses the flannel to start cleaning the uneven holes on Jon’s right arm. Jon flinches as the flannel touches his skin, pulling his arm back. There, where the holes were before, a dozen eyes have opened up, all staring at Martin. They both look at the eyes in silence for a few moments as they blink and roll around, focussing on each new thing around them. “I assume you remember the second Von Closen statement.” Quiet, Jon rubs his arm awkwardly, avoiding touching the eyes until they slowly blink closed. Unfortunately, Martin does remember. The mental image of the autopsy as described by Fanshawe fills his mind, making him almost gag. Thousands of eyes, their pupils constricting in the light, with irises of every hue and colour. He doesn’t want to know if Jon is like that inside, if it is worse now with the eyes beginning to manifest outside – he doesn’t want to know how long Jon has been like this. He doesn’t want to consider that Jon might have been like this for months or even years without him noticing.

“Does it – does it hurt?” He asks softly, as Jon slips his hand into Martin’s again.

“Yes.” And Martin feels his heart break a little within him, that there is so little he can do to ease that pain. “Yes, it hurts.”

“Can I do anything?” Shrugging painfully, Jon leans forwards to rest his forehead against Martin’s. His eyes close, breathing shallow and rasping as they rest there together. For a moment, Martin wonders if he has eyes within his lungs, obstructing the air flow. Then he dismisses the mental image firmly, focussing on the gentle, comforting pressure of Jon’s hand in his own.

“Just stay with me.” Jon murmurs, free hand coming up to cup Martin’s face. “Just – everything hurts less now you’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!   
> fair warning as I post this I have has 3hrs sleep in the last 48hrs, so uhhhhhhhh this note might be odd  
> thank you to everyone who's read this far, and to those who have left kudos (!) and commented (!!!)
> 
> See y'all next time for more angst
> 
> -Jay


	15. Doors and Tunnels

“I’m sorry about your jumper.” Watching Martin pick it up, Jon feels a pang of guilt. He leans on his new cane, appreciating the solid feel of it beneath his hand. Martin looks up and smiles at him, looking somewhat more tired than Jon is used to. 

“I can get you another one.” He shrugs, roughly folding it as Jon paces back and forth and tries to get used to the rhythm of walking with his new cane. “Or you can steal one of mine from the box.” Hesitating for a moment, Jon glances around to the box Martin is pointing to. Cardboard, held together with scotch tape, and with a few unidentifiable wool patterns visible in the top.

“You’re sure – you’re sure I can.” Jon makes sure not to ask Martin in case he loses control and ends up compelling an answer from him. The words come out flat and awkward, dulled by tiredness and a determination to stop it being a question.

“Yes, Jon. Go ahead.” The box is only a few steps away, but Jon moves slowly as he walks over to it, gasping in pain as he bends down to sift through the jumpers inside. He can feel the spiral mark tearing open again, blood leaking again beneath the large cotton square stuck over it. “Jon?” Frowning as he looks over at him, Martin looks worried. Jon wants to go to him, to reassure him.

“I’m fine. Just pulled something.” He smiles, rooting around in the box until he finds one of Martin’s softer jumpers, a dark blue one with a delicate star pattern. “Thank you, Martin.” 

“Anything for you, love.” With a smile, Martin looks up from the two mugs of tea he has been making. “Here, let me help.” Crossing the cell in three quick steps, he helps Jon into the jumper carefully. Jon sees him flinch at each pained noise, every wince, and once he is done, he hugs Martin, wraps his arms around him and buries his face in his shoulder.

“I love you.” Jon murmurs, closing his eyes. Smiling, Martin kisses Jon on the top of his head. 

“I love you too.” Softly, he holds him in his arms, warm and secure and whole for the first time since climbing out into the daylight of Hilltop Road.

“Isn’t this touching.” As Jurgen Leitner re-enters the cell, Jon tenses up. He feels Martin do the same and allows himself a moment longer before he turns around, slipping his hand into Martin’s as he does so.

“Leitner.” Voice full of disdain, Jon watches him intently. There is a tension in the air, like a string about to snap, a taut strand of a web vibrating slightly in the cold air.

“You look better.” He replies.

“Hm. Well, I should hope so.” Shrugging, Jon leans gently against Martin, smiles fondly as he looks down at their joined hands.

“What do you want?” Martin asks sharply, as Leitner puts down his bag. His grip on Jon’s hand tightens slightly, obviously as tense as Jon is. 

“I was told I was going to kill Jonah Magnus. Unless there’s been a change of plans?” A stab of guilt through Jon, as he glares at Jurgen Leitner.

“There has.” Speaking quickly, sharply, Martin glances at Jon.

“So, what’s the new plan then?” Neither of them replies, glancing at each other rather than meeting his gaze. “I see.” There is a long silence, in which Jon wonders whether to mention his own plan again. He glances at the gun, lying on one of the boxes in the cell.

“Actually, I – I think I might have an idea about that.” It is Martin who breaks the silence, speaking slowly and thoughtfully. Looking back at him, Jon notices that he’s frowning. “So, if you’re dead, then Jonah can die safely, right?” He turns to face Jon, thumb brushing over the back of his hand gently as he does so.

“Yes.” Jon replies quietly, scanning Martin’s face to try and figure out what he is thinking.

“And I assume that’s because you’re the Archivist?” There is something he is working up to, Jon can tell. Something he himself cannot yet grasp. 

“Yes. Martin –”

“What if you quit?” Martin interrupts before he can finish speaking, and Jon just stops. It takes him a moment to process the idea, fighting against the Eye all the way.

“I – what?” He can’t quite make himself think about it, and if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t really want to try too hard. There is too much pain for him to forget what will happen if he fights the Eye on this.

“What if you quit the Institute? Cut yourself off from the Eye completely?” Jon blinks, a look of intense concentration on his face as he considers the idea. It’s one that the Eye recoils from, tries to make his mind slide off of. He can feel himself starting to spiral.

“I don’t Know. It could work – I think it might work – but I don’t Know. I can’t –”

“Alright. Jon – Jon, it’s alright.” Blinking hard, the feeling of Martin’s hands on his arms grounds him, makes him feel human again. “Breathe.” He leans his forehead against Martin’s chest, closing his eyes.

“I assume you’re referring to blinding yourself.” Leitner says, picking up the gun so that he can sit down.

“Yes.” Watching him as he puts it down again, Jon replies. He leans against Martin again, drawing strength from his presence – a strength he has been sorely missing. 

“Hm. Gertrude Robinson was planning on doing the same. Although I’m sure you know that already, Mr. Blackwood.” Beside him, Jon feels Martin flinch slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but their hands brush against one another in a show of support.

“She never mentioned it.” Martin replies. It’s not really an answer, and they all know it.

“Well of course not. She never said anything of real importance, not if she could help it.” Folding his hands together contemplatively, Leitner looks up at the ceiling, which is thick with old, tattered webs.

“We’re not here to reminisce about Gertrude Robinson.” Voice sharp and tight with anger, Martin looks tense. As Jon slips an arm around his waist, he relaxes, taking a deep breath. 

“We shouldn’t be here at all.” Jon says quietly, turning his head as if looking through the floor to the Panopticon. “It’s too close to the Institute. Too close to – to the other place. And to the Statement.” He can feel it calling to him, whispering promises of power and knowledge, the answers he craves. It is getting louder, and he knows in his bones that it is because Jonah is once more writing it as they speak. 

“Right, so we’ll find somewhere else to go. Somewhere no one can find us.” Clinging to the solid presence of Martin beside him, Jon tries to ignore the call of the Statement.

“Somewhere he won’t know to look yet.” He sounds tired, and as he looks up at Martin, he can see that same tiredness in his eyes. 

“Georgie?” Smiling wryly, Jon nods and tilts his head sideways to lean against Martin’s shoulder again.

“She already knows I’m here. And she is quite literally fearless.” Slightly wincing, Jon shifts his weight back and forth to try and find a more comfortable way to stand.

“What if she throws us out?” Martin asks, putting his arm around Jon’s shoulders.

“She won’t. We won’t – we won’t be there long.” There is too much to do, too much pressure and too many unknowns for them to delay for long. All of it makes him feel even more exhausted.

“Will I be accompanying you two?” Once again, Jon is unpleasantly reminded that Jurgen Leitner still exists in their general vicinity. 

“No.” He smiles fondly as Martin replies, looking up at him with love.

“Well then, I will await your return here. I certainly have no desire to be murdered – particularly not by Elias Bouchard, or whatever he’s calling himself now.” Martin smiles at this, looking almost amused for a moment before the grief sets in at remembering who Jonah Magnus is currently pretending to be. It is a grief that eats away at Jon, poisons him with guilt and fear. 

“No time like the present.” Looking down at him, Martin seems concerned, so Jon stands a little taller. “Will you be alright going through the tunnels for some of it?”

“I’ll be fine. Just lead the way.” He smiles and gestures vaguely with his cane. “After all, I’ve got this now.” At this, Martin beams, face lighting up with happiness, and Jon feels unexpectedly warm inside, reluctantly disentangling himself from Martin so that they can begin to walk together. He even manages to end up holding Martin’s hand by the end of this process, which both of them look more than a little smug about. Martin picks up his backpack from the floor and slings it over one shoulder, and then they make their way out of the cell together, Jon still limping and leaning on his cane at every step. 

It is slow going, down the long passages, and then the winding passages, and then the cramped passages. Both of them know that to stop and rest in this place would be a bad idea, and so despite Jon’s increasingly pained movements, they do not stop until they have climbed up a rusted ladder and into a churchyard, lit by a pale and watery dawn. The low grumbling of traffic in the distance is oddly comforting, a reminder of the real world outside of the tunnels and the institute and the horrors all around them. An oasis of calm in the midst of all the pain and fear. Breathing heavily, Jon leans against a fence, closing his eyes for a moment as he tries to ignore the screaming pain in his leg, his side, and even the worm marks. Martin notices – of course he notices – and roots around in his bag for a few seconds before pulling out a box of paracetamol and a bottle of water, both of which he hands to Jon. 

“Might not help that much, but it’s better than nothing.” He smiles, slinging his bag back over his back. Jon unscrews the cap on the water bottle gingerly, pops out some paracetamol and swallows it quickly, tucking the rest into his pocket. 

“Thank you, Martin.” Pushing himself upright, Jon sighs. “We should keep going.” 

“How far away is Georgie’s?” Martin helps Jon over to the gate, full of concern. Exhaustion weighs Jon down, makes his limbs heavy and fogs his mind. He concentrates on Martin, on finding the answer to his question so that they can get somewhere safe. Somewhere they can rest. Thankfully, it is not knowledge he needs to draw on the Eye for, just his own memory. 

“It should be about an hour’s walk. More at my current pace.” The idea of walking through London for that long makes Jon’s leg ache painfully. Regardless, he is determined to do so, to get away from the insistent whispering of the Statement.

“We’ll get the bus then. You’re not walking for an hour on that leg.” He can’t quite find the energy to argue this point, but evidently the look he gives Martin is a good enough expression of his disagreement, because Martin sighs heavily and stops. “You’re not fine, Jon.” 

“Perhaps you’re right.” Jon says, somewhat sheepishly, as he limps down the street with Martin towards the nearest bus stop.

“I know I’m right.” Smiling fondly, Jon reaches up to kiss Martin on the cheek. 

“Yeah – yeah, I know you are too.” He leans up against him, shivering slightly in the chill dawn air by the bus stop. “I know. It’s just – I have to fix this.”

“Not alone.” Slipping one arm out of his coat, Martin tucks it around Jon so that they are sharing the warmth. Jon smiles, closing his eyes.

“No, not alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who, folks
> 
> That's right, my laptop is back and so am I, which means you get to read all the angst my brain has produced in the weeks I've been gone. 
> 
> As always, let me know what you think down below, I love reading your comments/theories/threats, they really motivate me to keep going.
> 
> \- Jay


	16. Dead on your feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks!   
> It's been a while, huh? This chapter deals with tooth rotting fluff, and the relatable experience of trying to kill your boss without consequences (for legal reasons that's a joke) Also, the inherent awkwardness of your ex turning up with his boyfriend and telling you he's trying to stop the apocalypse.

It is not necessarily surprising that Georgie lets them in. Jon was confident that she would, and Martin believes in Jon more than he believes anything else, these days. What is surprising is that she immediately hugs Jon upon opening the door.

“I thought you were going to die.” She says, still hugging him tightly. “Come in, sit down. You have to tell me everything this time, ok?” It takes a moment for her to even register Martin’s presence, and he almost wonders if he’s turned to fog again before she releases Jon and looks at him with suspicion. “Who’s this?”

“Martin.” Jon steps back, reaching out to take Martin’s hand again. “Are you alright?” His hand is warm – or perhaps Martin is just cold. The difference is hard to discern. What is not, however is the way that Jon flinches upon realising he has asked Martin a question. Wanting to comfort him, Martin strokes his thumb tenderly over the back of Jon’s.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m ok.” He steps over the threshold, looking around with mild interest. It’s certainly a nicer flat than his own was, with a cat tree taking up one corner of the room and a sofa that looks softer than anything he’s slept on in years.  
“Georgie, this is Martin. My boyfriend.” Beaming with pride and happiness, Martin stands a little taller.

“Oh, the mysterious one! Nice to meet you, Martin.” They nod politely at one another, Martin unwilling to release Jon’s hand long enough to shake hers. “Now, where did you run off to?” Martin raises an eyebrow at Jon, who shrugs in return, looking a little sheepish.

“The Eye said you didn’t exist, and I thought that had to be Jonah’s fault.” He turns back to Georgie, smiling with dry, bitter amusement. “I went to try and kill my boss. Unfortunately, I was unsuccessful.” There is a pang of guilt as Martin remembers what happened to Tim, and he steps closer to Jon in case he is needed.

“I assume he had it coming.” Looking Jon up and down, Georgie notes the new jumper with a frown, and Martin feels oddly smug about it.

“Very much so.” Martin laughs, a short, angry sound. His hand tightens in Jon’s for a moment, making sure that he’s still there. The texture of bandages is strange under his palm. 

“He’s trying to summon the Dread Powers from between realities to start the apocalypse, and he wants to use me to do it.” There is a numb tiredness in Jon’s voice that makes Martin frown. Filing that away for later, he wonders how much Jon has been taking out of himself.

“Alright.” She doesn’t believe him. Of course she doesn’t, Martin thinks. He probably wouldn’t have either. Nevertheless, the disbelief in her voice frustrates him, especially seeing the way Jon’s face falls upon hearing it. Martin glares at her.

“He’s telling the truth.” Snapping with frustration, Martin takes half a step forward. Something in his blood whispers that she is an obstruction, something stopping them from killing Jonah. He ignores it as best he can, focusing on Jon’s hand holding his own. “It’s – we just need somewhere to stay for a few days while we get a plan together.” At this, she softens slightly, glancing back at Jon. 

“You can stay for a bit. I’ve just about got the guest room made up this time.” Martin sees Jon’s eyes flicker towards the sofa briefly, where a rust coloured spot catches his eye as he realises that must be where Jon had slept previously.

“Thank you, Georgie.” Trying a tired smile, Jon leans on his cane heavily. There is a pained tension in his voice, and he doesn’t protest as Martin helps him over to the sofa. 

“You want me to get you a cup of tea?” 

“I – uh – tea would be nice.” As he sits down, Jon visibly relaxes, obviously glad to take the weight off his leg. Martin makes a mental note to try and see if there is anything else in his meagre first aid kit that can help.

“One sugar each, and I don’t take milk.” He says gratefully, standing awkwardly next to the sofa. 

“No problem. Rest up, I’ll go put the kettle on.” Georgie gestures for him to sit, and Martin does, sighing as he realises exactly how tired he is. By the time he has opened his eyes again, she is gone, and a large, fluffy, battle-worn calico is sitting on the arm of the sofa next to Jon, regarding them both with an imperious air. 

“I need to contact Sasha.” Sighing, Jon almost looks like he is melting into the cushions, and Martin suspects he looks the same.

“Why?” He replies, already patting down his pockets to find his phone.

“I – I left her a letter. Said to take Tim’s eyes out if he was still possessed when she got in.” Wordlessly, Martin pulls out his phone and passes it to Jon so he can text her. “Thank you.” He types slowly with one finger, frowning at the screen all the time, and Martin smiles as he watches him, feeling fond. 

“I’ve missed you.” Jon looks up, flushing as he meets Martin’s gaze briefly.

“I missed you too.” He hesitates briefly, and then leans over and kisses Martin on the cheek. Immediately going red, Martin smiles and looks at his shoes. “There.” Passing his phone back, Jon takes the opportunity to shuffle closer to Martin and rest his head on his shoulder. Martin fumbles putting it away, hurrying so that he can put his arm around Jon’s shoulders and hold him close. “You’re cold.” He says, closing his eyes. In the silence, Martin can hear the questions Jon is trying not to ask. 

“I’m not Lonely anymore, but it – it leaves a mark.” Jon huddles closer, curling up against Martin’s side. His slight frame is almost entirely lost in Martin’s coat. “It’s been hard, without you.” Going tense beside him, Jon looks up suddenly.

“Oh – Martin, I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault, Jon.” When Jon remains silent, Martin frowns. “No. No. Don’t blame yourself for this. For any of this.” He closes his eyes, sitting in the quiet with Jon as he tries to reassure him. 

“Here we –” Georgie trails off as she sees them there, Martin hugging Jon and whispering words of comfort into his hair. Clearing her throat loudly, she makes her way around to the coffee table and sets down two mugs, managing to keep a hold of a third. “You alright?” Automatically, Martin reaches for the closest mug, a sky blue one with balls of yarn painted on the side, and in doing so disentangles himself slightly from Jon.

“I’m – I’m fine.” Jon notices the sceptical look that both of them are giving him and sighs. “Alright, I’m better.” Which, Martin reminds himself, is at least moving in the right direction. As if sensing Jon’s distress, the Admiral moves from the sofa arm, dropping into his lap and curling up in one smooth motion. 

“Is this about your evil boss?” Sipping her tea, Georgie settles down into the armchair opposite them. Jon takes his mug, wrapping his hands around it for warmth as he leans back again next to Martin.

“Yes.” He replies, glancing sideways as if double checking once more that Martin is still there.

“So, do you have a plan for killing him, or not?” For a moment, there is silence, broken only by the Admiral’s loud purring as Jon pets him with his good hand.

“I don’t think we can kill him.” Martin’s blood runs cold, and he reaches out almost without thinking about it, taking Jon’s hand. 

“Jon?” He asks. A creeping sense of dread makes its way up his spine. 

“Even if the Archivist is removed first, it’s too big a risk. The only way everyone would be safe is if they all quit at once.” They all sit in silence for a moment, Martin trying not to think about how many deaths would be worth killing Jonah. “But I think there might be another way.” Despite himself, Martin looks up hopefully, beginning to understand Jon’s plan. Even if they can’t kill Jonah, there might be another way to contain or dispose of him.

“Oh. Oh, that’s –”

“In the coffin, I was cut off from the Eye. If we can throw Jonah in there –”

“Yes! Yes, and then we can save Tim as well!” Jon beams at Martin, his joy clear. “So, what, we just order the coffin from Breekon and Hope?” Already trying to remember how Gertrude used to contact them, Martin beams back.

“Maybe? Probably. They might need to stay with it – I don’t Know.” Sounding slightly hesitant, Jon nevertheless looks as excited about this plan as Martin feels.

“Can you Know?” He regrets asking almost immediately as Jon flinches and draws back, disturbing the Admiral, who jumps down and runs over to Georgie.

“I – I don’t want to Look.” Shrugging and looking down at his knees, Jon rubs at his arm, and Martin wonders if, beneath the bandages, eyes are opening up again. “Every time – it makes me less human.” Jon looks up sharply, tense determination in his face. “And I won’t feed it. There’s only so long I can get away with that before – before it stops me.” Again, Martin’s blood runs cold at the idea, and he finds himself holding Jon’s hand a little tighter. Across from them, Georgie looks slightly horrified. It is only through sheer determination that Martin keeps his own worry from showing on his face. Jon senses it anyway, releases Martin’s hand to brush some hair out of his eyes and offers him a weak smile. “I’ll be alright for now. Just – I don’t want to push it.”

“Who’s the Archivist?” They both look up at Georgie, frowning. “You said they needed to be removed. So, who are they?”

“Oh. That – that would be me.” Jon replies, rubbing at his arm again. “I have to quit. Which means blinding myself.” For a moment, Martin remembers first learning about their one way out – remembers what he’d said to Jon. He tries not to think about that possibility, that doing this might kill Jon. That’s not an acceptable cost.

“What the fuck?” Looking between the two of them, Georgie’s expression fades from shocked horror to determination. “That’s – god. Ok. How do I help?”

“Georgie –”

“Don’t you ‘Georgie’ me. I’m helping. Just tell me how.” Georgie doesn’t look like she’s backing down, glaring at Jon until he sighs and looks away.

“Fine.” He sounds tired. “We’ll need to order a coffin.” This doesn’t seem to phase her whatsoever. She just shrugs and takes another sip of her tea.

“And you need to get some sleep.” Nudging Jon gently, he sees him supress a yawn.

“Alright. If you insist.” The fondness in Jon’s voice makes Martin feel warm inside. “You should too.” With a wry smile, he nods.

“Yeah, I will. Don’t worry.” He takes Jon’s hand, brushing a thumb over the back of it tenderly. “We’ll get some rest, and then as soon as we have the coffin, we can go and get Jonah.” 

“That sounds like an excellent plan.” Jon smiles softly, leaning sideways against Martin. Neither of them moves for a long moment, not really wanting to put the effort into standing up, even if it is to go and sleep.

“Right. Well you two look dead on your feet. Go on, I’ll make sure no monsters get in while you’re sleeping.” Gesturing towards the guest bedroom, Georgie puts her mug down. As she does so, the Admiral ceases his winding around her legs and jumps up into her lap. Martin nods gratefully, getting slowly to his feet and helping Jon up. They walk slowly over to the guest room, and then once inside, collapse onto the bed, just about managing to kick of their shoes before they fall asleep. The last thought Martin has before his mind turns to dreaming is that they must have left Jon’s cane by the sofa.


	17. Eyenapping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who.
> 
> Yes, I have actually done writing! Wow! And it's... all Tim angst. Oops.  
> LMK what you think down below!
> 
> -Jay

When Tim goes looking for Jon, he doesn’t really know where to start. He’s not even entirely certain that he wants to find the thing. Face stealing monsters and time travel and clowns. Tim cannot trust it – him. Whatever the monster pretending to be Jon is, he doesn’t want to be alone with it, and there is a small but insistent part of him that would rather it remain unfound. So, he doesn’t look too hard – a cursory glance in an alleyway, a quick look around at faces in the crowd. Mostly, he tries to find Sasha, so they can agree that they’ve looked hard enough and return to the institute. He’s almost relived when he sees Elias stood in the middle of the pavement, a lunchtime crowd parting around him as he looks around, frowning until he sees Tim. The relief that spreads across Elias’s face is an almost alien one on his features as he hurries towards him. It is then, seeing that relief, that the first cold tendrils of dread start to seize at his limbs. Nothing good can be heralded by that expression.

“Jon has Sasha.” He says, and Tim’s blood runs cold. Immediately, his head fills with all the worst-case scenarios, slowly solidifying into a dread certainty that whatever monster stole and replaced Jon is going to do the same to Sasha. And Tim cannot abide the thought of losing her too. “I don’t know where they went.” Tim feels sick.

“God. _God._ He – he’s going to kill her. I should – I should have stayed with her – I shouldn’t have left –” Choking on his words, Tim can’t stop his thoughts turning to Danny. To the monster that killed him. To the sinking feeling that it’s all happening again, and he is just as powerless to stop it this time.

“Calm down. Tell me what you know.” Utterly impassive, Elias leads Tim to the side of the pavement, out of the way of the crowd, one hand remaining on his shoulder.

“Ok. Alright. He was – he was talking about killing Jonah Magnus.” At this, Elias goes stock still, even forgoing breathing for a few seconds before he composes himself, nodding gravely. Tim gets the distinct impression that he is trying very hard to look at something beyond this place and time and failing. Then he blinks, and the moment is over.

“Ah. Did he… say anything else?” After what feels like an age, Elias removes his hand from Tim’s shoulder, frowning as if there’s something distasteful on the bottom of his shoe.

“No.” He speaks too quickly, and both of them know he is lying. Surprisingly, Elias doesn’t challenge him on it, even as Tim tries to figure out why he is trying to protect the monster pretending to be Jon. “It doesn’t make any sense.” That, at least, he understands. That Jonah Magnus is dead, and so killing him makes no sense whatsoever.

“If he was going after Jonah Magnus…” Elias trails off, carefully looking at Tim. Something feels wrong about his tone, but Tim is too desperate to care.

“What. What is it?” If it means they find Sasha, then he’ll ignore all the warning signs and pretend that the look in Elias’s eyes is a dawning realisation of hope.

“I am aware of rumours that he is buried under the institute. Perhaps…” Again, Elias trails off, shrugging. It’s a calculated motion, too faux-casual to be anything but bait. And yet Tim goes for it anyway, fills in the gaps and doesn’t allow the doubt into his mind. Because even if Elias and Jon are working together, then Tim will pretend to fall into this trap to save Sasha. He will make that choice every time.

“You think that’s where they went.” Tim closes his eyes and prays that he’s not about to lose anyone else in the buried parts of London.

“Yes. In the tunnels.” Under different circumstances, Tim would say something, ask how he knows about these tunnels, but instead he straightens up and steels himself. No time to get more information, not when Sasha could be in danger.

“Right.” Swallowing his dread, Tim stands up straight. “Lead the way.” And Elias does. Through back streets and side streets that Tim doesn’t recognise until they emerge, blinking, into the street opposite the institute. He can’t quite face returning, but Elias does not stop, steps out behind a bus and crosses the road without hesitation. And despite the lingering worm of doubt, Tim follows him. Past Rosie’s desk, abandoned for the lunch hour, and past his office. Down into the Archives, where a thin trail of blood marks Jon’s earlier passage, with a bloody handprint marked clear on the door. “Jesus, Jon.” Tim mutters, as Elias pushes it open and steps through. Despite himself, he feels a brief stab of pity for the monster.

“Indeed.” The Archives themselves are much as Tim left them. In a state of disarray, slightly bloodied, statements and chairs strewn haphazardly across the floor. A cold cup of tea on Sasha’s desk, and two empty mugs on Tim’s. Handprints where the monster had leant on the desks to stay upright, and a dark stain by the chair in which he had sat. Jon’s office still firmly locked. Elias walks confidently through the maze of boxes and piles and desks, into the part of the Archives that stinks of gasoline for reasons Tim has never asked. There are hushed rumours that Gertrude did it, when she snapped at last and then disappeared, leaving a lot of blood behind. There are a lot of rumours about the Archives. And there, under a stained box of half-ruined statements, there is an ancient trapdoor. Tim looks on as Elias unlocks and opens it, revealing the darkened steps that lead into the depths below. And then they descend.

They enter the Panopticon in the centre of the tunnels, and it feels like Tim is being ushered into Elias’s home. An honoured guest, but not a safe one. The first thing he notices is the eyes on him. A hundred thousand carved eyes, all somehow watching him. And Elias, amused as he approaches the throne in the middle and the withered body sat in it. Jonah Magnus. Tim walks forward, determined not to show fear. Apart from the two of them – or three, including the corpse – the Panopticon is abandoned. No sign of Jon, the monster in his place, or Sasha. The fear creeps in regardless of Tim’s best efforts as he approaches the chair and Jonah’s body. As he reaches him, Elias steps back, walking over to a corner that Tim can’t quite see from his position.

“They aren’t here.” Tim says dryly, prodding the corpse in the chair with false confidence before he steps back, half turning to talk over his shoulder to Elias.

“No, they aren’t, are they?” There is far too much amusement in Elias’s tone for his liking. Tim takes half a step backwards, trying to conceal his fear. “Don’t look like that. We’ll find Sasha soon enough. And Jon too, if you’re lucky.”

“What are you doing?” He turns around fully and realises all too suddenly that Elias is no longer there. There is a moment of pure fear before he hears that quiet, sinister voice again.

“Calm down. It’ll be over soon.” And then something cold and metal connects with Tim’s head, and his vision goes black.

When Tim comes to, his brain feels crowded. It’s almost painful, although he’s inclined to attribute that to the blow to the head. There is something that feels uncomfortably like blood running down his cheek, and Tim reaches up to wipe it away. Or rather, he tries to. His arm doesn’t move. Tim panics, trying to open his eyes to no avail. He tries to stand up and realises that he’s already standing. In a moment of sheer terror, Tim feels his hand move without him ordering it. It raises up slowly, adjusting a tie that he wasn’t wearing before, and then pushing back his hair. Panic clouds Tim’s mind as he tries for several seconds without avail to take control of his body once more.

“Ah. You’re awake.” Tim says. At least, it is his voice, from his mouth. Someone else is saying it. And then, all at once, he can see again. There is a full-length mirror in front of him, and in it he can see himself. “Hello Tim.” His eyes are wrong. A vibrant green that is familiar from somewhere he can’t quite remember. But they are not his, and now he can see the blood trickling from the corner of one of them. He does not wipe it away. He cannot wipe it away. Tim’s mouth smiles, a slow, cruel thing, too smug for his face. “Calm down. It’s over now.” It is only then that Tim recognises the new eyes in his face, and remembers where he last saw them, glinting with amusement and smug satisfaction.

_Shit,_ he thinks.

Jonah laughs with Tim’s voice. It’s a cold, humourless sound, oddly triumphant, drowning in smugness. “You just missed them.” He wants to scream, to shout and demand that Jonah leaves. “Don’t be like that. You’ll be seeing my Archivist again soon.” There is a terrible pride in his voice, as though Jon is some prize pet that has just done a particularly impressive trick.

_I don’t care_ , Tim lies, and is pleased to see himself wince in the mirror.

“Be quiet, or you’ll give us both a headache. And don’t bother lying, I _can_ tell.” Tightening his tie, Jonah smiles at Tim’s silence. “Good. Now, tell me about my Archivist.”

_Of course_ , Tim thinks triumphantly. _A blind spot._

“Is that what he’s calling it?” Jonah sounds amused. “It’s rather apt, I suppose.” There is a long moment of silence, while Tim’s body turns away from the mirror and towards the desk. Elias’s office. Of course. “If you’re not going to tell me anything useful, then be quiet. I need to focus.”

_Focus on what?_ Angry and bitter, Tim shouts the words as loud as he can in his own head. Again, his body winces, lightly touching his forehead.

“Hm. A ritual.” And just like that, Tim knows, and the knowledge burns his mind. “Exactly. Now ponder that for a bit and leave me to my work.” For once, Tim does not have a reply. The awful certainty of the future Jonah presents him with is too much. He tries to close his eyes and fails, remembering sharply where those eyes ended up. Tim wants to throw up as a horrible pop repeats in his mind, over and over again.

_So that,_ he thinks eventually, _is the future Jon was running from._ The smooth motion of the pen in his hand over the paper stops.

“He’s seen it?” Jonah asks, and then lets out a pleasured exhale as he hears Tim’s response in their head. “He’s seen my _glorious_ world.” And then he laughs, tilting Tim’s head back. “I won. It worked.” As he gloats, Tim wonders exactly what he’s done. What he has given Jonah. “I will be the king of a ruined world and I shall never die.” He savours each word. They are bitter in Tim’s mouth as he sees Jonah’s longed-for future in his mind’s eye. “I shall never die.” The words are quieter when repeated, murmured like a prayer as he reaches up to his eyes and brushes under each once. A prayer to the Beholding. The thought fills Tim with fear as every eye in the room turns on him at once. While his thoughts are frozen in fear, Tim’s hand goes back to writing, that smooth motion of pen across the page that spells out slow and certain doom. And he sits there and watches the words spill out onto clean paper, reads each one with mounting horror. Tim is a stranger in his own body, and he feels desperately, hopelessly afraid.


End file.
